


A Gentleman's Agreement

by mahoni



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Hush Sound, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Like, The Used, Young Veins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Challenge: Bandom Big Bang, Forced Marriage, Magical Creatures, Multi, Unicorns, Wordcount: Over 50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-19
Updated: 2010-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 56,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahoni/pseuds/mahoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian buys and sells unicorns and bicorns for the titled and wealthy. When Bob's stepfather defaults on a debt he owes Brian, he uses Bob as barter to pay the debt off. Brian and Bob agree that their arrangement will be a marriage on paper only, that Bob will run Brian's stables and the relationship will remain strictly professional. But despite Bob's trust issues and Brian's propensity for drinking a lot instead of dealing with how he feels, their mutual affection for Brian's horses breaks down the walls between them. With a little help from Brian's friends and his possessed house, they begin to fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentleman's Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for forced marriage, implied dub-con/abuse/neglect, and implied animal abuse.
> 
> Art for the story by [runauberginerun](http://runauberginerun.livejournal.com/) can be found [here](http://mahoni.livejournal.com/604019.html).
> 
> Fanmixes for the story by [crowgirl13](http://crowgirl13.livejournal.com/), [nahemaraxe](http://nahemaraxe.livejournal.com/), and [shellies](http://shellies.livejournal.com/) can be found [here](http://mahoni.livejournal.com/602661.html).

**ONE**

Greta hopped into the carriage with far more energy than anyone should display at that time of the morning, and settled into the seat across from Brian. While the coachman shut the door and resumed his seat, Greta smoothed down her skirts and leveled a pointed look at Brian.

"What," Brian said.

The carriage rocked as it started forward. Brian hadn't opened the shutters on the windows when he'd got in, and Greta glanced around the dim coach meaningfully before turning her attention to him.

"Are you hung over?" she said. "Again?"

"No," Brian said firmly. Then the carriage hitched over a rough patch of road, rattling his head and his making his stomach lurch. He couldn't stifle a tiny groan.

Greta just raised an eyebrow. Brian tried to glare, but it made his head hurt.

"Do I pay you to grill me about my drinking habits?"

"No, you do not. You do, however, pay me to make you aware of any new developments in your deals." Greta dropped the Puritan act and smiled. "You're going to love this."

"Which probably means I will not."

Greta flipped the latch on one set of coach shutters and swung them wide open. While Brian clutched his hands over his eyes and cussed her out, she pulled a small folded note out of her attaché case.

She thwapped him on the leg with it.

"Man up, Schechter," she said. "You'll need to read this before we get to Ellis's."

Leaving one hand up to clutch his pounding skull, Brian dropped the other and squinted at the note. There was a broken wax seal; Brian couldn't make out the imprint.

"You've already read it," he said, and sat back to close his eyes again. "Just give me the high points."

"It's from Ellis," she said.

Lord Ellis had purchased a pair of geldings from Brian and then neglected to pay in full on time. Brian and Greta were on their way to either get the remainder of Brian's money or repossess the horses.

Whatever was in the note clearly had something to do with the issue, but Brian's hands-on tendencies stopped when it came to the legal details. Legal wrangling was pure bullshittery, and he had no patience for it. That's what he had Greta for.

"Yeah, I guessed that, or else you wouldn't be torturing me with sunlight to make me read it right this second." He squinted one eye open. "Probably. Evil wench."

Greta just hummed dismissively as she tucked the note back into her attaché.

The carriage hit a series of ruts and Brian grabbed the anchor strap above his seat and clung to keep from falling over. His head throbbed with each bump.

"I hope it's an apology for being an ass and assurance that he has my money," Brian muttered.

Greta raised an eyebrow, bemused. "If you actually think that, you must be completely trashed."

The truth was, Brian did his best to avoid heavy drinking before important client meetings. But he'd been doing his books the night before, and calculating how god-awful long he still had before he could afford to get out of the horse-selling business and into full-time competition and breeding. It was hard not getting hung up on the feeling that he was never going to be able to afford the kind of farm he wanted, that he was going to be stuck having to depend on self-important blowhards like Ellis for his income forever. In the end he'd convinced himself that his meeting with Middle Lord Ellis was not more important than the bottle of Port sitting on the sideboard in his study.

The way Greta was looking at him now, though, was beginning to make him wonder if that had been the wrong decision.

"But no, not quite." Greta settled back comfortably in the seat. She was holding her own strap, but other than that was entirely unruffled by the jostling. "In fact, it states that he still does not have the money. Because his 'fortunes have not improved'."

She paused in mock drama. Brian drummed his fingers on his knee pointedly.

"He wanted to let us know that he doesn't have the money," she said again. "But that he does have a child of marriageable age."

Brian had not been expecting that. Not in the least because it was not true. "No he doesn't. If he did the child's information would have been in the property list we got when we sued."

"Apparently things have changed over the last week or so." Tilting her head against the carriage door and turning her face into the cool spring breeze drifting in with the evil sunlight, she said, "I sent Jon out to do some quick digging. Ellis's oldest son was married off to a Baron last winter in exchange for a sizable wedding price, deferred for a period of six months out of courtesy. But when Ellis requested the wedding price be paid in full now, a couple of weeks early -- to pay for your horses -- the Baron instead sent the son back. Cited 'unsatisfactory companionship,' and called the marriage contract void."

"How embarrassing for our Lord Ellis," Brian said. Odds were the Baron was just a cheapskate; but on the other hand, Brian had met the two youngest Ellis offspring who were still at home. Both of them were obnoxious brats. "And he thinks he can foist this kid off on me in exchange for my horses?"

Greta smiled, her eyes closed against the sun. "Ellis insists the boy is worth much more in good breeding and hardiness than what he owes you, but he's willing to negotiate given the urgent nature of the situation."

She cracked an eye to see how Brian took this. He must have looked just as repulsed as he felt, because she laughed.

"Come, now," she said. She reached out and patted his knee encouragingly, snorting at the glare he shot her. "Think of how much you'd save on rent boys and mistresses if you took a spouse."

Brian switched from a glare to a fantastically unimpressed level gaze. Greta's eyebrows went up suggestively.

Brian abandoned his attempts to quell Greta with a look -- honestly, he didn't know why he even tried with her, it just rolled right off her. It also frequently encouraged her to give him even more shit. If she wasn't such a damned good attorney, he'd probably be tempted to strangle her.

Or propose. Not that he had any interest in getting married, but Greta with her sweet face and her merciless intelligence and her complete inability to take him seriously would be tempting. He was pretty sure that made him a masochist, but he couldn't help it. He had a type, and Greta fit it pretty damn well.

However, he had no interest in getting married. Also, she was the best brokerage attorney in the county, and he was more interested in watching her turn deadbeat clients and people who tried to sue him into weeping wrecks than in trying to live with her.

Sighing deeply, Brian flicked her hand off his knee. "Firstly, keep your dirty mind out of my sex life. Secondly, no way in hell would I want to take home some idiot, obnoxious Ellis spawn. Thirdly --"

"Actually, Jon got the dish from Ellis's hired help, and he said they all seem to honestly like the son. He's a nice guy, and a hard worker." Greta managed to look earnest and serious, which impressed the hell out of Brian. "Quiet, but easy to get along with, they say. A lovely young man apparently."

"_Thirdly_," Brian said through gritted teeth. "I deal in horses and money, not people."

Greta stopped pretending to be earnest and gave him a wry shrug. Tipping her head against the carriage door she closed her eyes again. "I know. But I had to disclose the offer. Obviously we can decline barter per the cash exchange stipulation in the sales contract, but you know he'll push the matter. I wanted you to be aware of it in advance."

Brian stifled another groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was inconvenient enough to have to repossess the horses. The two Ellis had purchased had come from a foreclosure and unless Brian took responsibility for them -- including the cost of boarding -- until they found another buyer, they'd go to a temporary state impound. Brian wouldn't do that to even the meanest horse, so he was going to most likely have another pair of horses on his hands for a while. He could afford it, but it would squeeze the budget a bit.

But on top of that now he was going to have to possibly listen to Ellis sing the praises of one of his brats for however long it took Greta to convince Ellis' attorney that the trade was not happening.

Brian definitely regretted his decision to drink the night before. If anything, he should have waited until this morning to get started. He was pretty sure he was going to wish he was wasted when he got to Ellis's estate.

*

By the time the carriage was winding down the lane through Ellis's grounds on the way to the main house, Brian's headache had abated a little.

Not enough that he didn't want to put off having to talk with Ellis as long as possible, though.

He rang the coachman's bell, and as the carriage slowed he told Greta, "Try to get things settled without me. If you can't, have somebody come get me."

"Where will you be?" Greta sat facing backwards in the carriage, and from her vantage point she couldn't see the stables coming up until she shifted around and peered out the window. "Oh. Of course. Just don't touch the horses until Ellis gets out here. If there's something wrong with one of them --"

"I know." Brian pushed the door open. "He could claim I did it and sue _me_. I'm hung over, Greta, not stupid."

He hopped out and shut the door, returning Worm's salute as Worm snapped the reins and the horses moved on.

They'd stopped on a stretch of lane lined by big, shady trees. Brian appreciated the respite from the sun, though the pounding in his head still flared up a little at the brightness. As he walked toward the outlying barn he worked on filing the headache away to where he could mostly ignore it.

A comfortably big pasture spread out around the barn, surrounded by a white-washed fence in good repair. The outlying barn, used for carriage horses in training, was smallish but airy and well-kept. Ellis was the kind of man who was full of himself and also generally full of shit; but appearances were very important to him. His staff wore fine clothes and were well-fed, his house was pristine without even the tiniest shingle out of place, and his grounds were tidy and beautiful. His horses, too -- whether the carriage horses or the race horses -- were given excellent care.

It was the main reason Brian willingly did business with the man. The one non-monetary rule Brian had for accepting clientele was that he should not have to worry about the horses once they were out of his care and in their new homes. But being picky on that count meant that Brian couldn't refuse to deal with pompous idiots just because they got on his nerves.

One of the two geldings Brian had sold to Ellis was in the small pasture at the front of the barn. It was the bay, a northern bicorn breed marked by his curly mane and tail and the pair of black ivory horns that coiled in big loops out from his forehead over his eyes. The breed was known for their stamina and solid build which meant they were relatively slow runners and useless on a race track. Ellis had wanted new carriage horses, though, so speed was less important than endurance.

The bay noticed Brian coming and raised his head to look over the groom working on him. Its ears flicked forward and its nostrils flared briefly. That was as much reaction as Brian got, though; the bay whuffled deeply in Brian's general direction, and then proceeded to ignore him.

That was a little odd. The chestnut bicorn Ellis had also purchased was already broke to harness and pricier because of it, but the bay was still untrained. One reason northern bicorns were so much more expensive when they were already work-ready, and relatively dirt cheap when they weren't, was due to the fact that they were as skittish and stand-offish as the mountain goats their wild cousins shared territory with. It was damn hard to train out of them. There was no way Ellis's trainers had got the gelding settled in the couple of weeks they'd had him.

There were other ways than patient training to settle a horse, though, a few of which would leave the animals outwardly healthy-looking as was so important to Ellis. The least revolting option was drugging it into submission. Then there were the trainers who thought blindfolding and busting a cracked bottle over the animal's head to terrify it into believing it had been mortally injured over and over was a valid training method.

If Ellis was letting his trainers use either of those methods... Brian just wished there was something worse he could do to the man than repossess his horses and refuse to deal with him again.

He found a spot just across the paddock from the bay and the groom and got comfortable against it.

The groom was just getting to the end of the process of combing out the bay's mane and tail. The tail was already a silky cascade of curls, bound in three places with neat bands to keep the curls from flying around too much. The forelock was combed out as well, and bound in a handful of loose locks; the mane was in a similar state, with just the rear portion still fluffy and unbound.

Brian wagered the groom had been at it for a while. The northern breeds' curly, silky hair looked great when it was combed and neat, but it turned into a matted, tangled mess overnight, when the horses were bedded down and the bindings removed. It had to be seen to daily, and was a bitch to comb out. The groom was still going slowly, though, with no sign of impatience, combing out the locks and winding the leather thongs neatly and precisely.

While Brian watched, the bay swung his head around and dropped it to rest heavily on the groom's shoulder. It was the sort of thing horses did with each other -- standing side to side, back to front, resting their chins on each others' hind quarters. It was a companionable, affectionate thing, and not the sort of thing horses did with people all that often. Brian felt the knot of worry in his stomach loosen a little. This was not a horse that had been treated cruelly by anyone in these stables.

Of course there was still the possibility of drugs. Brian wasn't ruling that out. He grudgingly admitted to himself that was most likely because his hangover was still pricking him in the eye and his mouth tasted like a dead thing. That didn't put him in the mood to give Ellis, and by extension his employees, the benefit of the doubt just yet.

The groom finished up, stuffing the unused thongs into his belt. He rubbed the bay's nose, and then slid his hand up to scratch around the base of the horns, which was pretty much every horned breed's sweet spot. Brian thought he was saying something to the horse, but he couldn't make out what.

Finally the groom eased out from under the bay's head. The bay blew out an annoyed sigh, and then snorted and bobbed his head haughtily when the groom slipped the halter off and gave him a swat on the rear. He trotted through the paddock gate without trouble -- and with a spring in his step that Brian wouldn't expect to see if the horse had been drugged -- and out into the pasture.

"Huh." Brian rubbed the stubble under his chin with his knuckles. He was out of theories for how the groom had got the young horse to stand there long enough to get his hair done. On the other hand, now he was less ready to start hitting people and more just curious.

The groom caught sight of him when he set the bay loose. Winding the halter lead in a loose bundle and draping them over a fence post, the groom walked over.

"Can I help you?" the groom said.

Brian watched him come, waiting until he got closer to speak partly because he didn't want to have to raise his voice and risk making his head ache worse, but partly to look the man over.

Brian guessed they were about the same age, though definitely not the same height. The groom had about a half a foot on Brian, which just meant the groom was average height compared to Brian's slight lack in that department.

The groom's fair hair hung long in front, neatly cut and in style, but messy -- sweat damp and a little tangled and dirty, like he'd been running his hands through it to push it out of his face while he worked.

His clothes were as nicely tailored as Brian would expect on one of Ellis's staff. But instead of the breeches and smart jackets Brian had seen on the other grooms back when he'd been interviewing Ellis as a potential client, this man wore comfortable trousers and a loose shirt, untucked and smudged with dirt.

"You work for Lord Ellis?" Brian said.

Because honestly, he half wondered if this guy had just wandered in off the road and decided to hang out in an unattended stable. Brian was having a really hard time believing Ellis would put skill with horses over a propensity for such casual dress.

The question got him amused, slightly dubious raised eyebrows. The groom stopped, using the front tail of his shirt to wipe off his dusty hands while he looked around the paddock pointedly.

"I'm in here grooming Ellis's prized new carriage horse. What do you think?"

Brian eyed him. He wondered if the groom talked to Ellis like that. If so, Brian hoped he got to see it before his visit was over.

He dropped the admittedly stupid question and got to the topic he was most interested in.

Nodding his head -- minutely, cautiously -- toward the bay grazing in the pasture, he said, "You've had him, what, couple of months?"

The groom followed his gaze, his attitude shifting to fond. "About two months, yeah. I've only been working with him a week or so, but I can tell he'll be a good one."

"A week," Brian said. It was his turn for raised eyebrows. "And you've already got him trained to stand there for an hour while you brush him down?"

The groom's mouth twitched almost in a smile. "Well..." He drew the word out and half shrugged. "Not really."

He crossed the remaining distance to the fence and leaned back against it at a polite distance from Brian, watching the bay with him. "I put him through a few hours of his training regimen, let him run around with the other training horses for a while. Then I do the boring stuff when he's tired enough to stand still for me."

Brian gave a short laugh, then scrunched his face in a pained wince that he hoped the groom missed. "And then eventually he starts to associate being brushed down with standing still? Good tactic. _Slow_ tactic."

The groom shrugged again. "Yeah. Can't rush this stuff, though."

When he glanced at Brian, completely sincere and looking for agreement, two thoughts struck Brian at once. One was that the groom had fantastically blue eyes; the other was that Brian couldn't offer even half of what Ellis was probably paying this guy, which was a shame because Brian would have tried to hire him away from Ellis on the spot otherwise.

He shook both thoughts off with a mental sigh and offered a hand. "Brian Schechter."

The groom clasped Brian's hand hesitantly. He looked taken aback, and his reply was mumbled. "Bob Bryar."

Letting Brian's hand loose, Bob turned to get a better look at him. His friendliness clouded over into something unreadable.

"Schechter?" he said.

Brian tried not to take it personally that Bob apparently wasn't going to be too thrilled with an affirmative.

"Yes. That's one of my horses." He pointed at the bay. "You've got a chestnut of mine somewhere around here too."

He nearly added _and I'll be taking them both back from your idiot boss for non-payment_ just to be an ass, but managed to bite it back.

Bob ran a hand through his hair and then scrubbed the hand over his neatly trimmed beard.

"Right. Right, I know. I was told you were coming tomorrow."

The expression Brian caught on his face as he turned to watch the bay again was a little bleak, and a lot uncomfortable. Suddenly Brian felt bad. The guy had probably gotten attached to the bay over the last week. Good grooms tended to do that.

"No," Brian said. "Sorry. Today's the day."

Bob made an awkward noise and made to move toward the barn. "Right. I've got to, I should --"

He broke off and stopped, looking past Brian, and abruptly his whole expression smoothed to an unreadable neutral.

Brian turned to see what had caused the reaction. Ellis strode toward them as quickly as his dumpy legs could carry him. His attorney and Greta trailed not far behind.

"Mr. Schechter." Ellis smiled with as much graciousness as he could fake, which wasn't all that much. "I see you've met Robert."

*

Where Ellis was short and rotund, Bob was average height and build. Where Ellis was dark -- dark hair, dark eyes -- Bob was fair-haired and blue-eyed. Where Ellis would not shut the hell up for a goddamned minute, Bob was quiet and attentive. All of those things were immediately obvious as soon as the two of them were close enough to compare.

So the only thing Brian heard over the next excruciating minutes that didn't dumbfound him was Ellis's declaration that Bob was not his son. Not by blood anyway.

"He's my second wife's son," Ellis said right off. "A product of her first marriage. She was the daughter of a High Lord -- a duke, in fact, very good breeding -- but Robert's father was just a Minor Lord. Died young and penniless of course. When Robert's mother passed not long after I married her of course I took all responsibility for raising the boy, but the relationship is not of blood."

And that was the _least_ appalling thing the man said.

For example, Ellis then went on to assure Brian that despite his one parent's unimpressive lineage, Bob was of good stock.

Like a horse, apparently. At least, Brian had said exactly those words a hundred times about horses he was trying to sell.

"And I allowed him to take lessons along with my own children." Ellis looked at Bob occasionally as he spoke, his smile fixed on his face like an expensive but really uncomfortable fashion accessory. "He's not the brightest young man, but he gets along well enough with educated people."

Brian glanced at Bob while Ellis rattled on about Bob's adequate mental capacity and social skills. Bob hadn't moved, and still stood just a few steps away from the fence, inside the paddock. Someone less observant -- someone like Ellis, for example -- might call his expression stupid. Brian would call it very carefully blank.

When Ellis started blathering about companionship and Bob's apparent yearning to make a home with some respectable individual, Brian waved a hand and interrupted.

"Wait, wait." He pressed his fingertips to his temple. His headache was coming back in force. "Didn't he just get out of an arrangement?"

What Brian meant was, wouldn't a person need some time to deal with that, instead of being shoved directly into marriage with someone he'd never even met?

Ellis heard something completely different, though.

"Ah." His smile faltered a bit, and he leveled a sharp look at Bob. "Yes. He did."

Bob's hands twitched and Brian expected clenched fists; but then he relaxed. He couldn't relax the red from his ears, though.

"There were...special circumstances that it would be uncouth for me to share," Ellis said. He traded in the charming smile for something more serious. "Bob and I have discussed it at length, however --"

Brian stifled a grimace. He'd have hated to be Bob in that conversation.

"-- and he understands his mistakes. You wouldn't have any trouble with him."

Sneaking a sideways look, Brian caught Greta's eye. She returned his glance, her eyes bright with the kind of amusement that came from horrified fascination. Brian empathized.

Then Ellis leaned in and said, with a knowing smile, "But if you'll allow me to say -- as someone who has had three wives and two husbands over the years, I can tell you that there are definitely certain benefits to taking a spouse who already has experience in the marriage bed."

Brian almost laughed. Not because it was funny, just because _did he just say that?_

Almost unwillingly, Brian followed Ellis's smirky, self-satisfied gaze to look at Bob. Bob was watching down the lane, looking at nothing with a perfectly bored expression, but his face had flooded pink. He'd pulled the leather thongs he had been using on the bay gelding from his belt and was winding them slowly, and very tightly, around his hand.

Brian considered himself a fairly level-headed, steady person, but he would be the first to admit that he could be rash. When he hit certain levels of anger, he could do stupid things, like punch a Middle Lord in the face for being a repulsive ass. But add drunkenness or a hang over to the anger -- that's when Brian's mouth, rather than his fists, tended to get him into trouble.

"All right." The words came out through gritted teeth, but they still managed to get out before Brian could start thinking.

"Hm?" Ellis said distractedly. He was still watching Bob.

Brian unclenched his jaw. "All right," he repeated. Alarm bells started going off in his head as he said it, but they were dog-piled and mostly silenced by the revulsion he felt when he looked at Ellis's stupid, stunned face. "I accept your terms."

Ellis blinked at him. "You...accept my terms. You mean --" he turned his surprise on Bob. "Really?"

It struck Brian then that Ellis hadn't expected him to accept. Had not thought it was even a possibility. It struck Brian too that if that was the case, Ellis was humiliating his stepson for nothing.

Or maybe not for nothing. If Bob had managed to keep his Baron, Lord Ellis wouldn't be about to lose two horses for the highly embarrassing reason of being too broke to pay for them. A little public cruelty probably struck Ellis as appropriate punishment.

"I assume you had your attorney draft a preliminary contract," Brian said, assuming nothing of the sort. "Give it to Greta to look over."

Greta stepped close and touched his arm. "Brian," she said, cautiously.

He shook her hand off and shut her off with a glare. "It's within my rights to accept barter in place of cash payment."

Then he shifted the glare to Ellis and his attorney. They were gaping. Brian took a bit of shallow satisfaction from that.

Bob was staring at him, too, as stunned as the rest of them, and as soon as Brian looked at him he realized he'd skipped something very important.

"Shit," he muttered to himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes a moment, and said, "Wait."

Dropping his hand, he said "Wait, wait," again to the bulk of his audience. To Bob he said, "Can I," he pointed to the barn. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

He met Bob's eyes long enough to be sure the request had gotten through Bob's startlement. Then he pushed passed Ellis and headed for the outer door of the barn.

*

Inside the barn it was cool and blessedly dim. Brian stopped a few feet inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the change in light, and to let his head bask in it.

The scent of sawdust and clean straw, oats and horse soothed him, too. He was city born and bred, and while he was growing up never got closer to a horse than dodging cabs and riders in the streets. But he'd always been taken with them. Even the ones that looked half-starved always struck him as full of grace and dignity; and even the ones with their horns filed down to nubs seemed majestic to him.

When he ditched primary school, his family and everything else that he couldn't wait to get away from, he headed into the country and stopped at every stable he found. Eventually someone neither laughed in his face nor got suspicious about the letter Brian had forged from his parents, giving him permission to seek apprenticeship on his own, and they'd hired him. He could still remember the first time got to brush down a horse -- the warmth, scent, solidness of it.

He didn't love anything as much as he loved his horses. And just shoving him into a nice smelly, working stable was guaranteed to settle him down, no matter how pissed off or tanked he was.

At the soft scuff of footsteps down at the paddock end of the barn he took one more deep, comforting breath of stable-smell. Then he turned to see Bob approaching.

He moved in and out of shafts of afternoon sun filtering through the high windows. He'd brought the bay's halter in, and just when Brian thought Bob was going to walk right up to him he detoured, stopping instead at the small work bench a stall's-length down from where Brian stood.

Brian watched him hang up the halter and stash the unused leather thongs. He was trying to be casual, easy, but Brian could see the tightness in his movements. He did a good job of schooling his expression, though. Brian couldn't tell by looking at him if he was uncomfortable or angry.

_I can't tell because I don't know him_, he thought. _I don't know the first goddamned thing about this guy._

This guy he'd agreed to marry.

_Shit._

Eventually Bob did all of the putting away and straightening up he could possibly do at the work bench, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to Brian. He still kept his expression neutral, but Brian thought it looked like a distinctly unhappy neutral.

_Shit_, Brian thought again. _I am an asshole. And also an idiot._ He'd have wondered what the hell he'd been thinking, but he remembered quite clearly that he hadn't been thinking. In the space of memory between wanting to beat Ellis' smirking face in and the present moment, there was a big angry blank where thought should have been happening.

"So. Bob." Brian crossed his arms to keep himself from wringing his hands like an idiot. "It occurred to me a second ago that I should probably make sure this -- this thing, this --" he untucked a hand from beneath an arm long enough to wave it with what he hoped was more nonchalance than desperation. "I mean, you don't know me. You might not really be okay with this whole...thing."

Brian decided to blame his complete lack of suaveness on the fact that he hadn't been in a situation where he had to say anything to a prospective partner beyond 'how much?' in a very, very long time. And none of his friends expected him to be anything other than a smartass or a jerk.

Now that he was thinking about it, the only beings he talked sweet to these days were ones that had four legs and horns. That probably did not speak well for his character.

On the bright side, it was entirely possibly that his vocabulary failure would make Bob laugh at him and turn him down flat.

But Bob just said, "I am."

Brian didn't buy that for a second, so he gave Bob a moment to qualify the statement. When no qualification -- or outright laughter, because really -- was forthcoming, Brian said, "You are."

"Of course I am."

"Of course you are." Brian knew he sounded like a moron, but the last thing he'd expected was for Bob to just agree to it.

For a moment Bob didn't respond. Brian thought he could see a muscle in Bob's jaw twitch, though.

Finally, Bob said, "I would be honored to be wed to you, Mr. Schechter."

It was said so flatly, so clearly by rote, that Brian couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Wow. Okay." Brian uncrossed his arms and pressed the heels of his hands briefly against his eyes. "Okay. Look. What I'm asking, is what do you think about this? About marriage, to me, someone you just met approximately ten minutes ago."

"I told you," Bob said, though the emotion in his voice wasn't quite as skillfully restrained. "I would be --"

"No --" Brian started, then stopped, even though Bob cut himself off and snapped his mouth shut.

_What the hell am I doing?_ Resentment was clear in Bob's expression now; Brian tried to imagine having to live with a person who would be so unhappy to be with him.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say _you know what, the hell with it_, and rescind the offer and just take the damned horses back. The bay would give him at least this much trouble before he was trained, but at least with the bay Brian could look forward to getting along with him eventually.

Brian didn't like having to admit he'd fucked up if he could possibly help it, though. He didn't want to be the one to back out of this. He would if he had to, but he'd rather get Bob to do it. He took a breath and blew it out slowly.

"Look. Bob. Tell me what you think about this," he said. "What do _you_ want to do?"

For a moment Bob just stared him down. Finally, he shook his head and laughed, short and unamused.

"It doesn't really matter," he said. "And you know it."

"Oh, knock it off," Brian snapped. "It matters because I am asking you to tell me what you think, because what you say will decide whether or not we do this. If you want to keep feeding me bullshit, go ahead, but I'm not going to ask again, and in about five seconds I will decide for both of us."

That got a reaction. As Brian's voice rose in pitch, Bob's expression got stormier and more stubborn.

"Fine," he said when Brian stopped yelling. "Okay. You want to know what I think?"

He jerked forward, like he wanted to get up in Brian's face or take a swing. Even though he stopped himself almost immediately, Brian couldn't help flinching back a step.

For a moment, hard emotions rushed in Bob's eyes, and he seemed to struggle with how to respond. Then he shook his head, a quick, sharp, frustrated movement.

"I think if it's not you it'll be somebody else," he said stonily. "Which is why _it doesn't matter_."

If Brian could have argued, he would have. He hated being shouted down. But he couldn't argue the point. His own parents had been too drunk and too disinterested to try too hard to make use of him as an asset, but Lord Ellis wasn't like that.

Clearly.

The silence got uncomfortably long, and it seemed to exhaust whatever anger Bob had left after his near-outburst. He seemed to sink in on himself a little. Dropping his gaze, he moved back, and then away, escaping as far as the work bench again.

Brian felt suddenly very tired. He ran a hand over his head and down to squeeze the back of his neck.

"How old are you?" he said.

Bob rearranged a few things on the work bench, keeping his eyes on his hands. "Twenty-one."

That caught Brian a little off guard. He hadn't thought Bob was quite that young. He was obviously younger than Brian, since he was still his stepfather's property, but Brian had thought Bob was much closer to legal adulthood than that.

Brian found himself looking a little closer at Bob, what he could see of him half turned away. He wondered if it was just the weathering effect of so much outdoor work with the horses that had worn some of the youth off him. Brian didn't think so. Sun and wind didn't make a person's eyes that serious and reserved.

Either way, Bob wouldn't be a legal independent until he hit twenty-five. There was no way Ellis wouldn't find somebody to purchase a marriage contract on him again before then.

And Brian felt sorry for him. He really did. He couldn't stand the thought of somebody wielding that much power over his life. But beyond the simple fact that Brian just didn't want to get married, period, there was no way in hell a marriage between the two of them would work out.

While he tried to think of a way to say so without being even more of an ass than he'd already been, he watched Bob go through the halters hung over a row of hooks above the workbench. He evened loops of lead rope that were fractions of inches askew; he flattened minutely crooked buckles, and brushed his fingertips down the leather straps to nudge them into slightly straighter lines. Brian couldn't tell if Bob was doing it just to keep his hands busy and distract himself, or if it was soothing in some way...

...but watching him do it gave Brian an idea.

A really bad idea.

One that probably wouldn't work.

He told himself that a couple of times, just in case he could stop himself from doing the second stupidest thing of the day, but by then he'd already made his cautious way to the workbench.

"Have you ever done any foaling?" he said.

Bob's hands stilled for a moment; he glanced sideways at Brian, almost involuntarily.

"Yeah," he said. "Some."

"On your own, or did you assist? Or," because this was the stepson of a Middle Lord he was talking to, "Just watch?"

Bob shrugged. "I assist the stable master when she's around, deliver on my own when she's not."

It was something that could be verified with the stable master, which Brian had every intention of doing. "You spend a lot of time in the stables?"

That actually got a fraction of a smile.

"I've lived in the stables ever since I was a kid." Bob shot him another sideways look, awkward again. "Um. I mean that literally. Up until about a year ago, when Lord Ellis decided I might actually be marriageable and moved me into the house so I could --" His cheeks went pink again, and he looked away, trying to shrug off what he was saying. "Said I needed better manners. That sort of thing."

Brian grimaced. "I think I'd rather live in the stables than in that house, too." He froze, realizing he'd said that out loud. "No offense to your stepfather, of course."

Another twitch that could almost be smile. Brian wondered if Bob was always that stingy with smiles, or if it was just because he didn't know Brian. Either way, Brian was having sudden issues tearing his gaze from Bob's mouth. It was actually a very nice mouth and Brian wanted to catch it if it turned up in a real smile. He imagined a smile might shave a few years off that solemn face.

"I still try to spend as much time as possible in the stables." There was a hint of defensiveness underneath the awkwardness, like Bob expected Brian to make fun of him. "I like working with the horses."

Brian was pretty sure his idea was still a bad one, but he was suddenly less sure that it wouldn't work.

"Bob," he said finally. "I have a proposal for you."

*

He found Greta waiting alone outside the barn.

"Have you lost your mind?" she said pleasantly. "Or do you actually think this is funny? Because you have just made it about twenty times more difficult for me to push the repossession through without having to agree to financial or ownership concessions."

"The first one," Brian said. He motioned at her attaché. "I need a pencil. And something to write on."

"You are going to explain this," she said.

"Yes," he said impatiently. "Yes, later, but right now I need to write some things down for you."

After a pause long enough to make her irritation extra clear, she dug out a pencil stub and a half-sheet of paper, covered on one side with her tidy short-hand. Brian scribbled a few notes on the back of the sheet. When he handed it back, he waited while she looked over it.

He watched her skim the notes, and then reread them again more slowly. Finally she looked at him.

"What is this?" she said.

Brian had never had that tone of voice directed at him before -- the one with the hard edge, the one that said 'bullshit me at your own risk, asshole.'

"I'm serious, Brian. What the hell are you doing?" She held the paper away from her, like it was trash. "You get absolutely nothing from this deal. No horses that can be resold, no money. Nothing but an admittedly attractive piece of ass, which." She shook her head, and even though Brian was not actually doing what she was implying, her disdain made him feel like a creep. "When I said this young man could be a cheap replacement for expensive whores, I did not _actually_ mean that."

"_Greta_," Brian said. "That is not -- look. If you want to know what I'm getting out of this, then between you and me, I'm getting what looks like a damn good stable master. I can't keep sending to Bert's to borrow Jepha when I've got to travel, and with Melody about to foal I need someone permanent. Just --" he held up his hands when she started to interrupt him. "Just trust me, okay? I'm an asshole, but I'm not that kind of asshole."

The way she pressed her lips together, he could tell she had plenty more she wanted to say, but instead she just nodded tightly.

Brian blew out a tired breath. Turning and shading his eyes to look up the lane toward the main stables he said, "Okay. Now I have to go check this guy's references."

*

Since Brian hadn't expected to wrap up the repossession with enough daylight left to make it back home, he'd gotten rooms at an inn between Ellis' estate and the nearest town for himself, Greta and their coachman Worm. Brian made it to the inn well before Greta finished with Ellis and Ellis' attorney, wrapping up his interviews with the staff in Ellis' stables fairly quickly.

He'd met most of them a few months before, when he'd vetted Ellis as a client. The stable master was a petite woman with a sun-leathered face, masses of hair and terrifying amounts of energy.

She was also one of the most bluntly honest people Brian had ever met, so he felt certain she'd be straightforward about Bob's skill and experience with horses.

But the news of Brian's agreement with Lord Ellis had already filtered through Ellis' entire staff, right down to the apprentice stable kids, by the time Brian made it to the main stables. That seemed to change Brian's status in the stable master's eyes. At first Brian didn't think he was going to get anything but stony glares and a brush-off from her.

Once he explained about his own stable staffing situation and Melody's advanced condition, though, the woman thawed significantly. To Brian's enormous relief, she had nothing but good to say about Bob's handiness in the stables.

She also shouted over several of her apprentices, who backed her up. Apparently all of them had split their training between Bob and the stable master. One of them went on and on enthusiastically about Bob's patience and sense of humor, until he remembered the stable master was standing there listening. Then he stuttered through a few weak attempts to insist that she was very patient and sweet too, before giving up and fleeing back to his work.

So Brian left the stables feeling confident that his initial read of Bob had been accurate.

He also left suspecting that the stable master had, through some uncomfortable euphemisms involving animal husbandry, threatened to geld him if he was mean to Bob. But he could have misunderstood. The way she shot him a nasty head-to-toe look when she started talking about stallions with bad attitudes getting what they deserve could have been coincidence.

After that Brian could have gone up to the house to join Greta in the negotiations. But since he never did that even when the topic was horses, he didn't bother this time either.

It wasn't cowardice, or inability to contribute anything useful to the discussions. It was just that there had been a couple of meetings with obstinate clients and snobby attorneys that made Greta ban him from all future negotiations. She apparently objected to his attempts to solve stalemates by throwing inkpots at clients or lunging over the table and trying to beat smug expressions off attorneys' faces.

Brian was fine with that. When they weren't rage-inducing, legal negotiations were boring as hell.

*

It was dark by the time Greta slid into the seat across from Brian at the inn. He was hunched at a table in a back corner seeing how long he could make his first pint of the establishment's revolting house beer last; Greta eyed the mug suspiciously.

"You had goddamn-well better not be drunk, Brian Schechter," she said.

Not quietly, either. A few heads swiveled to look at them, and Brian fought the urge to bang his head on the table.

"I don't get drunk when we travel together," he said instead. "Not since that first time. Not even a day like today could kick me off that particular wagon."

The first time he'd got drunk while traveling on business with Greta, he'd come to the next morning with one of the worst hangovers of his life, and a stipulation in the contract he'd signed while drunk that part of Greta's fee for her services during the negotiations included Brian riding on the box with the coachman all the way home. Pantsless.

He'd done it, too. She'd threatened to sue him for non-payment if he refused.

"Good." She pulled the draft contract from her attaché and slapped it onto the table in front of him. "Read. Let me know if you want anything changed. If not, sign."

He read. For the most part it was no worse than he expected. Lord Ellis appeared to have accepted the terms Brian had given to Greta to include.

There was one part that made him choke on his shitty beer, though.

"What," he wheezed, hammering the contract with a finger. "The hell is this?"

Greta didn't even have to look at the section he was pointing to.

"It was the only way Ellis would agree to stipulations 6A and B." She smiled sweetly. "We can either take 6A through C out, or you can suck it up and live with it."

6A and B were the escape clauses. 6A stipulated that Brian could annul the marriage at any time within the usual waiting period for any of the usual reasons, with a small financial penalty to be paid by Ellis. Brian wanted it worded that way because he didn't want to get into a big back-and-forth with Ellis by asking for too large a penalty, but on the other hand he also damn well wanted some kind of restitution if Bob turned out to be impossible to live with.

6B stipulated that Bob could annul the marriage at any time during the waiting period with no penalty. Some version of 6A was in every marriage contract written up just by default; 6B was more rare. But Brian wanted it in there. It was weird enough to be the guy Bob was being essentially forced to marry; Brian wanted Bob to at least have an out.

6C was not, as far as Brian had heard, ever included in a marriage contract. It stipulated that neither married partner could utilize stipulations A or B unless they could prove they shared the marriage bed on a nightly basis. There were a couple of exceptions, covering Brian's business travel requirements and certain situations concerning illness or foaling (Brian bet Greta had added those -- there was clearly a benefit to having an attorney who understood stable business), but other than that --

"We _have_ to have sex?" Brian said. "Seriously?"

"You have to share a bed," Greta clarified. "And you have to be able to prove that you shared a bed if you request an annulment. What you did in the bed wouldn't have to come up."

Brian just stared at her. Yes, it was good to know that if he wouldn't have to somehow prove he and Bob had been _fucking_, since a major selling point of his agreement with Bob was that there would be no expectations regarding sexual relations or anything else related to real marriage.

Still.

"We have to share a bed," he repeated. "_Have_ to. _Seriously?_"

Greta sighed. "Apparently Bryar's previous husband used the fact that the boy had his own room and his own bed as validation for his claim that Bryar was not...affectionate enough to be a good companion. It seems to be universally understood that the Baron was lying his ass off about the lack of sex, but the sleeping arrangements were good enough for a preliminary ruling in the Baron's favor. Ellis doesn't want a repeat of that."

Brian must have looked as miserable as he felt, because for the first time since that morning Greta appeared at least a little sympathetic.

"I tried to come up with some kind of work-around," she said. "But he was adamant. He would not agree to the escape clauses unless his stipulation was included. I thought you'd rather deal with uncomfortable sleeping arrangements than be stuck with Bryar forever if things turned out badly."

"Shit," Brian muttered.

She was right. Of course she was right, and Brian knew it.

But, dammit. 'Uncomfortable' did not even begin to describe what sharing a bed with Bob and his barely restrained resentment and awkwardness was going to be like.

Brian dragged his hands down his face and sighed, and went back to reading the rest of the contract.

There were no other unpleasant surprises, thank god. The rest of the contract was the usual stuff -- property transfer itemization; the passage detailing what rights Bob would gain when he turned twenty-five and what rights Brian would retain, and on and on.

There was also the section regarding future marriages that specified that Brian could legally take one more spouse of opposite gender from the newly contracted spouse, so long as he could prove either need or financial ability to support both spouses.

_Right, no,_ he thought irritably. Some of his wealthier clients -- people like Ellis, the Wentzs, the McCoys -- did make use of the multiple spouse option, and Brian knew a few less wealthy people who wished they had the cash flow to do it. Brian, on the other hand, had no idea what he was going to do with one spouse, let alone what the hell he'd do with two of them.

When Brian finally finished reading, Greta prepped a pen and offered it to him. He signed on the blank line above Ellis' neat signature and a sloppy scrawl that he assumed was Bob's.

Then he tossed the pen on the table and slumped back in his chair.

"Don't you dare say it," he told Greta.

"Congratulations, Mr. Schechter," she said. "You're married."

*

**TWO**

When the Baron refused to pay the marriage price early and sent Bob home instead, Lord Ellis had accused Bob of misbehaving and getting sent back on purpose. He insisted Bob had done it because he knew about Ellis' troubles with the horse broker and he wanted Ellis to have to debase himself to a "working-class man of insignificant wealth who ought to be grateful just to be honored by my patronage."

Never mind that Bob had not spoken to his stepfather nor been kept informed of anything going on outside of the Baron's house during his entire stay there; it was still his fault.

Then after Ellis married Bob off to that same man of insignificant wealth, he'd told Bob that Schechter was no better a match than "the dim-witted, mannerless son of a nobody" -- i.e. Bob -- deserved. He had sneered to anyone within hearing range about how Schechter couldn't even afford to keep his own carriage and would have to send a hired hack for his new husband.

And while the hired carriage Schechter had sent was a nice one, there was still the fact that it _was_ hired; and for all that Schechter dressed well enough and kept a disconcertingly (to Lord Ellis, anyway) capable attorney on retainer, Schechter was in fact a working man.

Bob didn't really care about that sort of thing in general, but he had admittedly made some assumptions about Schechter based on those facts.

For example, Bob was a little surprised at how long the avenue was between the main road and Schechter's house.

Bob had figured Schechter's property would probably be big enough for a smallish house, stables and pasturage. Bob would have been fine with that, too, since all he actually cared about was that there were in fact stables and pasture.

But since passing between the stone pillars marking the entrance to Schechter's property, the carriage had been lumbering through dense woodland for a good twenty minutes. Either the coachman was taking the long way, or Schechter owned more real estate than your average working man.

Bob pushed open the carriage door. They were moving slowly enough that he could jump out safely, so he did.

When the startled coachman made to pull up the horses, Bob motioned for him to keep going.

"No, don't stop," Bob said, jogging alongside the carriage a few paces.

Once he got the door slammed shut he caught the box handle and hopped onto the high step. The coachman shifted over to give Bob room to climb up beside him.

"Thanks," Bob said, settling back on the seat. "Are we close to the house?"

The coachman nodded. "Just past the bend up ahead."

Bob caught the once-over the coachman gave him. The man didn't lose his friendly, neutral attitude, but Bob still felt suddenly uncomfortable.

Riding on the box was something he did with the coachmen all the time back home, so he hadn't thought twice before hopping up this time. But this wasn't one of his stepfather's carriages, and the coachman wasn't someone Bob had known for years.

It occurred to Bob that on top of that he looked like a complete ass.

As soon as the coach had pulled away from Ellis's estate Bob had taken off the ridiculous cravat and tailored jacket and waistcoat his stepfather had insisted he wear. He couldn't do anything about the stockings and the stupid shiny shoes with their stupid shiny buckles, though. He'd have to live with them, not to mention the formal breeches and _stupid_ silk shirt, until he arrived at Schechter's house and could unpack his trunk to get some real clothes.

But even half undressed he knew he was still overdressed for where he was going. The first time, with the Baron, that kind of gaudy, formal bullshit was expected. Bob had to dress like that all the fucking time in the Baron's home.

This time, though, there was absolutely no purpose to that kind of attire, other than to make Bob look like an idiot, offend Schechter with the implied snobbery, or possibly both.

So he could only imagine what the coachman thought of him. He probably came off as the spoiled idiot stepson of a wealthy lord trying to make casual with the hired help.

For a moment Bob sat there trying to think of something to say. Explaining that the clothes really weren't his fault would be ridiculous. If he was better at subtlety he might have tried to get the coachman to tell him a little about what kind of man Schechter was, but Bob couldn't think of a way to bring it up that was less blunt than "is he a jerk or is he an okay guy?"

There were tall posts spaced at regular intervals beside the lane, with what looked like huge, inverted wooden bee hives on top. Bob stared at the one coming up, squinting through the leafy shadows for a better look. He'd never seen anything like them before, and he thought about asking the coachman what they were.

_Because the guy probably loves playing tour guide to clueless rich kids_, Bob thought. Blowing out a sigh, he gave up on socializing. He was terrible at it.

He was about to mumble an apology and get back into the carriage where he belonged, when the coachman said, "So. You're the guy Brian's going to put in charge of his horses?"

His tone and expression were faintly disbelieving. Bob could feel his face turning pink. He just nodded.

"Huh." The coachman went back to watching the horses and the lane. "You're not really what I was expecting."

"Yeah," Bob said. "It's a, kind of a, sort of a long story..."

He realized he was twisting his shirt around his fingers and had the hem half untucked from his breeches. He grimaced at himself. _Way to play it cool and mature, Bryar_.

Then the implication of what the coachman had said struck him. Untangling his hand from his shirt, he hunched forward a bit, bracing his hands on the box seat on either side of him. He looked off down the lane, at the approaching curve, and said as casually as he could manage, "Did Schechter tell you that? That I'll be taking care of his horses?"

The coachman nodded. "Why? Was it supposed to be a secret?"

Bob shook his head and turned to watch the trees move slowly past. His heart had thudded up into his throat and he suddenly felt a little like he might throw up.

When Schechter had said he needed someone to run his stables and take care of his horses because he traveled so much on business, Bob had agreed to do it. Of course he had. He'd even hoped it would happen.

He hadn't been sure, though. The Baron had thought Bob's interest in horses was cute, and said he'd let Bob play around in the stables when he wanted to, but it hadn't worked out that way. Bob had barely set foot anywhere near a barn in the nearly six months he'd been in the Baron's house.

But if Schechter was telling people that's what Bob was going to be doing...

Maybe Schechter just wanted to make sure people wouldn't think he'd actually marry some idiot Lord's idiot mongrel stepson without knowing he'd get some use out of him. Still, the best way to make the story fly would be to actually let Bob into the stables now and then.

Clutching the box seat, Bob took deep breaths and told himself to get a grip. Now that it sounded like he may in fact be spending some time in Schechter's stables, it hit him how afraid he'd been that wouldn't happen.

It took him a second to realize the coachman had said something else.

"Sorry --" Bob cleared his throat and made himself look at the coachman. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I just asked if you'd ever been to the house before," the coachman said.

He'd put on an air of exaggerated nonchalance that made Bob hesitate before answering.

"No," Bob said. "This is my first time here. Why?"

"No reason," the coachman said. But the nonchalance gave way to a very small, slightly worrying smile.

Bob was fairly sure that whatever life at Schechter's house would be like, it had to be better than things were at the Baron's. Still, Bob wondered if he should rethink his decision to not grill the coachman on the subject.

Before he could decide, though, they turned at the bend in the lane. Tall, dark stone walls loomed suddenly up at the edge of the tree line just ahead. Where the lane widened into a small turn-around, an ancient iron gate, hanging a bit crooked on its hinges, stood open.

They had arrived.

*

The place was definitely a lot bigger than Bob had expected.

Once through the gate, the lane cut between open, spacious lawns and elaborate gardens on either side. The stone wall went off a little distance in both directions, disappearing past a walled garden on one side of the grounds and running up against the stables at the other.

The lawn ended where the lane turned into a large gravel circle in front of the house. Bob guessed ten, maybe more, good-sized carriages could be parked comfortably side by side. The occasional bright tufts of grass and purple clover creeping across the courtyard gave Bob the impression there wasn't much traffic there, though.

The stables looked fairly extensive. They rambled all along the southern edge of the grounds; there were three separate buildings, each with rows and rows of glassed-in windows, high pitched roofs, and wide gravel passageways between them. Bob couldn't see the pasturage beyond them, but he thought it was probably safe to assume there was plenty of it, too.

Schechter was waiting on the gravel courtyard in front of the house, but Bob didn't notice him right away. The house cast a long afternoon shadow, jagged from the collection of cone-topped turrets reaching up past the third story roof, and from the wide, squat structures -- Bob thought they were maybe low rooftop towers -- set back from the front of the house.

The same dark stone used for the perimeter walls made up most of the house, and there were more windows just on the front side of the house than Bob could be bothered to count offhand. Bob assumed there were curtains too, but they weren't visible. The windows seemed empty, shrouded with the kind of dark that filled a deep, empty well.

A streak of white across the lawn to the right of the lane caught Bob's eye. That was when he noticed Schechter. The white streak was a dog, racing toward where Schechter stood with another dog in the middle of the courtyard.

As the coachman pulled the carriage around to the front entrance stairs, Bob watched Schechter wrestle a stick from the prancing dog, rear back and sling it as far and as high up into the air as he could. The dog took off, getting up speed with a few bounding steps before snapping its wings open and soaring up after the stick.

Then Schechter was striding toward the carriage, and Bob figured he should probably get down from the box.

And get ready to talk to the guy he'd been married off to. Who he'd only talked to once before.

His stomach lurched when he jumped down, but he told himself that was just from the impact of landing.

Instead of walking out to meet Schechter, Bob went back to the carriage to get the coat, waistcoat and cravat he'd taken off earlier. At the last second he decided that maybe he should at least put the coat back on. He shrugged it on and hastily tucked in the part of his shirt he'd pulled loose earlier, doing his best to ignore his sense of creeping dread.

"Big Wormy," Schechter called. "How was the trip?"

Schechter came up forward of the carriage horses, looking off to the other side of the carriage where the coachman pulled Bob's trunk from beneath the box.

"Good," the coachman said. "Quick journey, no problems."

Bob made his way to the back of the carriage while the two men talked, edging around to the other side just enough to clear the back but not be visible from where Schechter stood.

It was partly cowardice, and partly due to the fact that the dog that hadn't gone chasing after the stick had detached itself from Schechter to check out Bob. It followed Bob around the carriage, and ducked in front of him suddenly to stick its nose in his crotch. Bob had to either stop or trip over it.

"Hey boy," Bob murmured.

He moved slow, offering his palms to distract the dog from its exploration of his more delicate parts. The dog grumbled, something between a sigh and a growl -- a warning not to make any sudden movements, but a friendly warning.

Bob didn't really need the warning. Full-grown winged Simargs were about the size of miniature horses, and had enough jaw strength and wing power to haul an average-sized man off the ground. Nobody in their right mind would be anything but cautious around a Simarg they'd never met before.

"Duke," Schechter said, exasperated. "Get back here. Leave the guy alone, he just got here. Sorry," he said to Bob, as grabbed the dog's collar and tugged it away.

"It's fine," Bob said. He mumbled it, just in case Schechter hadn't actually wanted an acknowledgement.

Schechter slapped the dog on the rump. It gargled irritably at him, and then huffed a couple of deep, throaty barks when he swatted it again. The complaining turned out to be just for show, though. When Schechter muttered, "Oh, stuff it, mutt," and nudged it away with his knee, it fluttered its wings and trotted off to play tug-of-stick with the other Simarg in the yard.

"Sorry about that. Duke and Tulip are --" Schechter said, waving a hand dismissively. He scowled at the Simargs, but there was a touch of fondness in his voice. "Well. Ellis has a pack of Simargs, right? So you know how they are with new people."

The coachman carried Bob's trunk up the steps and set it by the front door. As he came back down to the carriage, Schechter said, "Are you hungry? Smith has some kind of marinated fowl in the oven. It smells pretty good."

"Nah, I can't." The coachman stopped beside Schechter to watch the dogs playing. "I have to run some errands on my way home. My girl turns six tomorrow. She demands cake and a maypole and pony rides."

"And she'll get it, won't she," Schechter said, smiling.

The coachman laughed. "Hell yes. Spoiled rotten little princess."

Bob knew this was the same man who had driven Schechter and his lawyer to the Ellis estate a couple of days before, and Bob figured he was Schechter's regular driver. This didn't look like just small talk between a driver and his frequent client, though; they looked like friends.

"All right." Brian pulled some folded bills from a pocket. "Tell the princess happy birthday for me. And I'll let you know about next time."

The coachman took the bills and stowed them inside his coat. Schechter got a grin and a clap on the shoulder; Bob got a friendly nod.

Bob and Schechter both stood where they were, a more than careful distance apart, to watch the carriage roll away down the lane.

Eventually the coach pulled far enough away that standing there without speaking any longer would be ridiculous. Bob saw Schechter shift out of the corner of his eye, and felt his attention. Taking a deep breath, Bob turned.

At that moment, Schechter's eyes were fixed on Bob's shoes, most likely the end of a head-to-toe examination. Bob twisted the waistcoat and cravat into a tight roll just to have something to do with his hands, and waited.

Rubbing his chin, Schechter appeared to debate something with himself. Finally he said, "Well, I was going to start by showing you the stables, but you're not really dressed for that."

_The stables_. Bob's heart lurched again.

"I can change," he said. "Or I can go like this." He gestured at his shoes and stockings with the bundled up waistcoat and cravat. "They're -- if they get dirty..."

Schechter eyed him, apparently amused by where Bob was obviously going with that.

"It wouldn't be any loss," Bob finished weakly.

He felt a flush creep up his neck at the way Brian fought a smile.

"Those are pretty nice clothes," he said. "No reason to ruin them."

Bob loathed the stupid clothes, but he nodded. "Yes, you're right. I should change."

Gesturing for Bob to go ahead of him, Schechter followed him up the steps.

"You need any help with that?" he said as Bob bent to hoist up his trunk.

It was a small trunk to begin with, and it wasn't even full. Bob got it on his shoulder easily.

"Okay," Schechter said. "I guess not." Then he hesitated. "Before we go in -- did Worm tell you anything about the house?"

"No." Bob looked up at the house, dark and haloed with the late day's stark sunlight.

"Ah. Well. It's not a big deal."

Schechter had to put a little weight into it to get the heavy old door handle to unlatch. When he pulled the door open, though, it didn't creak. Given the looming quality and age of the house, and how weird Schechter was acting, Bob had expected an ominous creak. He caught a glimpse of the big entryway -- parquet floor, light walls, a curving stairway -- as Brian said, "But the house is kind of...a bit..."

He glanced over his shoulder at Bob as he moved to step through the door, and said apologetically, "Haunted."

And then he smacked hard up against a wall.

A wall that filled the doorway and that Bob knew for a fact had not been there a second ago.

Schechter reeled back, clutching the side of his face. "Son of a _bitch_." He dropped his hand and glared at the wall. "Okay, not haunted. _Possessed_."

After a second there was still a wall in the doorway. Schechter swore again and kicked it.

Then he took a step back, took a deep breath and blew it out. Very calmly, he closed the door and turned to Bob.

"The house is very old," he said, with a strange, forced formality. "But it's a lovely old house with a --" through somewhat gritted teeth, "-- a unique personality."

After a moment, Bob got the impression he should say something.

"Oh," he said. "O...kay."

Grinding his teeth some more, Schechter opened the door again. The wall had disappeared and the doorway appeared empty. This time Schechter stepped through with no problem. Bob braced himself and followed.

He made it through without incident too, and found himself in the large entryway.

Bob knew Schechter didn't have a wife -- that was one small relief Bob found in going over the marriage contract before he signed it. His uncomfortable relationship with the Baron's wife was one of the many aspects of that first marriage Bob hoped not to have to repeat.

But even without a wife around to influence the décor, the house was still lovely.

The entryway was open all the way up to the second story ceiling. The whitewashed walls curved to make the room almost round; arched moldings extended up over each of the windows and doors to echo the shape. The trim was done in a mix of soft blues and greens; the floors and stairway were equally subdued pale wood.

The stairway followed the walls around in a graceful curve. There was one landing, opening up to a hallway on the second floor; from there the stairway continued winding up to end at the ceiling.

Literally end at the ceiling.

Bob squinted, trying to make out if there was a door at the top of the stairs. He couldn't see one.

"Sitting room," Schechter was saying, pointing to a door off to the left. "And opposite that is the library. Straight back down the hall are my study, a washroom, some rooms I haven't done anything with yet, and if you keep going far enough you'll pass a billiards room, a dining room and a portrait hall, and eventually end up in the kitchen. There's also an exit to the back gardens just past the kitchen, and a hallway to the other servants' work areas in the north wing."

"Portrait hall?" Bob said involuntarily. It occurred to him that given everything he'd been wrong to assume, possibly he shouldn't have taken his stepfather's word for it that Schechter did not come from some kind of titled family. "Are there..."

"Portraits? Yes," Schechter said. "Not of me or my family -- my parents couldn't afford a flat not built over a pigpen much less pay for somebody to paint their picture. The portraits are of the family that owned this place originally, for generations. All the way back past the monarchy. You should check them out, they're interesting. Just don't try to remove any of them."

"I wouldn't..." Bob's curiosity got the better of him. "Why not?"

Schechter made a face. "Because the house doesn't like people trying to take down the portraits. The house has _opinions_ about that. Among other things," he added under his breath.

"There's a back stairway to the third floor," Schechter continued as he headed for the stairs. "They used to be the servants' quarters, but all of my staff have rooms on the second floor. The third floor is mostly used for storage. The staff also have a room up there that they use for...whatever. I think they play music. Sometimes they have people over and have parties up there. Which I don't mind, so long as it's not disruptive."

Bob followed automatically as Schechter moved toward the stairs, but when Schechter went up Bob stopped at the bottom of the stairway. He didn't want to piss the guy off or appear an idiot or a coward five minutes after arriving, but no one had warned him that he was going to be living in a house that could make walls where there were supposed to be doorways and that had _opinions_.

"Excuse me," he said. When Schechter stopped and noticed Bob way down at the bottom of the stairs, Bob shifted the trunk on his shoulder and said as politely as he could, "No disrespect intended --" he glanced around. "-- to you or your house. But. What exactly is going on here? Am I in any danger?"

"No," Schechter said, not very convincingly. "Of course not."

Bob tried not to stare him down, but he really couldn't think of any other response than "Bullshit." But Schechter didn't get angry. He sighed and gingerly touched the side of his face, where he had a red mark from walking into the temporary wall.

"Probably not. I mean, the house isn't going to kill you or anything. At least, it hasn't killed anyone since I've lived here."

"Is that supposed to be encouraging?" Bob said.

Then he bit his tongue, because he really had not meant to say that out loud. So far Schechter didn't seem like the sort to take offense at any little thing, but Bob really didn't want to test his luck with snarky back-talk.

Schechter still didn't get mad, though. Mostly he looked uncomfortable, but sincere.

"Look, just, come on up. I swear it's not going to do anything to you between here and the bedroom."

He said the last part loudly, for the benefit, as far as Bob could tell, of the house. That did not help Bob's confidence level.

On the other hand, Bob's options were fairly limited. He could freak out about a weird house, use his escape clause and break the contract and go home, and probably end up locked in the cellar at Ellis' house for the next four years as punishment; or he could follow Schechter upstairs and hope the house would not decide it had _opinions_ about _him_.

Bob started up the stairs.

*

The master bedroom was a nice room. It was a big room, almost as big as the Baroness's bedroom at the Baron's house, in fact. The furnishings were much more sedate, though -- dark parquet floors with no rugs other than the small, plain pair on either side of the bed; a few pieces of dark wood furniture that looked about as old as the house; simple white bedding and curtains.

The furniture included two enormous wardrobes that matched, two washstands that didn't, a writing desk, a few chairs, and a very large bed.

There were also rose petals everywhere. Bob was concerned about the rose petals. He hoped to god they didn't mean what it looked like they meant.

"I know nothing is exactly modern," Schechter said. "But all of the furniture came with the house, and since it was all in perfect condition I didn't really see the point in replacing it. But I did have to bring an extra washstand from one of the other rooms, because this room only had the one. Um."

Schechter made his way slowly to the middle of the room, shuffling through the rose petals strewn on the floor. His gaze drifted around the room, taking in the rose petals that also covered the washstands and bed. He looked deeply disconcerted.

"You," he said. "You, um, that wardrobe over there, you can have that one, I already moved my things into the, into the other one..."

Trailing off he turned to Bob. The consternation and irritation on his face caught Bob so off guard he almost laughed.

"Look," Schechter said, run a hand uncomfortably over his head. "I did not have anything to do with, with --" He waved the hand, presumably at the rose petals. "Just, I've always used one of the smaller bedrooms, at the front of the house, but the bed in that room is small, and I thought that would be a little weird to have to sleep in it together. All things considered."

Bob inched into the room, sticking to the wall, crushing rose petals under foot. A set of three ceiling-height windows graced the west and north walls; one window on each wall had been thrown open, and a breeze pushed through, making the curtains billow and kicking up little bursts of rose petals on the floor.

Beneath the fresh air and the rose musk, though, Bob could smell a faint mustiness.

"Nobody was using this room before?" he said.

Schechter shook his head. "Not for decades. We open all the rooms up once a year, but that doesn't help much. I asked Ross to air the room out and dust and all that, but." Schechter sighed. "He probably didn't have anything romantic in mind at all when he did this, honestly. He probably just thought it would make the place smell better. The kid's just got this thing for roses right now. I don't even know."

He looked honestly apologetic, and embarrassed, and Bob felt inclined to believe him. He felt slightly less ill about it, anyway.

"Okay." Bob said. "It's fine."

Shaking his head, Schechter headed toward the door. "Well, I'll go ask him to sweep up after you change." Hesitating in the doorway, he asked, "Do you need anything? Any...I don't know. Anything?"

Bob moved away from the door as Schechter approached, and crossed the room to the wardrobe Schechter had indicated was his. He set the trunk down.

"No, I'm fine," he said.

"Okay. Oh --" Schechter stopped again, hand on the doorknob. "Do you clean up after yourself?"

Bob blinked at him. "What?"

"Are you okay with cleaning up after yourself?" Schechter made another abrupt, wavy gesture. "Like, can you hang up your own clothes and things?"

"Yes," Bob said slowly. "Of course I can."

He tried not to let on that he thought it was a stupid question, but he must have failed.

"Well, I wasn't sure. Ellis has a pretty large staff. I wasn't sure if you were used to people doing stuff like that for you."

"I told you I lived in the stables most of my life, didn't I?" Bob said. "The housekeeper didn't send staff to clean up after me out there."

"Oh, right." Schechter gave him an unreadable look. "Right. I forgot about that. But that's good. If you clean up after yourself, don't break things, don't set anything on fire and don't touch the portraits in the portrait hall, the house shouldn't give you any problems."

Bob felt his eyebrows go up. He wondered if somebody had given Schechter those rules, or if he'd learned them by personal experience. "Okay."

Schechter nodded, drummed his fingers on the door handle. "So. I'll meet you outside, then. Front of the house."

Then he swung the door shut and was gone.

*

Bob got his clothes changed and his things put away. His trip back out to the courtyard was free of walls appearing out of nowhere or stairs vanishing or anything else he half expected the house to do.

He found Schechter waiting for him. The dogs too, though they were both content to follow the two men this time instead of wanting to play or posture. The smaller dog, Tulip, did come up alongside Bob to sniff his hand and then butt it with her head to get her ears scratched, but that was as much attention as Bob got from either of them this time. They had apparently decided he was harmless.

"I can't pay you the same kind of wage your stepfather pays his staff," Schechter said as they crossed the courtyard toward the stables. "But I can pay you what you'd expect for an operation this size. At this point I don't have as many horses as I hope to eventually have."

Bob just nodded. They'd already discussed him receiving an allowance equivalent to a wage, since the entire arrangement between them hinged on the marriage being a sham and Bob living at the house in the capacity of a stable master as opposed to a husband.

And so far that looked to be what was really going on. Bob had had his doubts -- there were plenty of master horsemen who'd be willing to take the kind of wage Schechter was willing to pay without complicating things with a marriage contract. The only reason Bob could think of that Schechter would do it this way was that he wanted something else that he could get through marriage.

Bob didn't know if it was a social thing -- his stepfather had pointed out that even the orphan stepson of a Middle Lord would be a coup for someone of Schechter's social status -- or a companionship thing, or a free sex thing. He figured it would be one or more of those, anyway.

Bob had tried to prepare himself to deal with whatever else was expected of him. He was pretty sure he could put up with a hell of a lot so long as Schechter still let him manage the stables.

He was beginning to wonder, though. Schechter had seemed truly embarrassed at the kinds of things the rose petals could have implied. And he wasn't making the kind of small talk a person desperate for a friend tended to do.

"You know, I guess I can't call it a wage, can I," Schechter was saying. He made a face, a little disconcerted again. "If people find out about the marriage -- which, I explained to the staff what was going on because they'd find out anyway. But everybody else."

They'd reached one of the smaller stables, and Schechter paused at the door. The older Simarg, Duke, waited patiently for the door to open; Tulip pawed at the door briefly and then wandered in an impatient circle around Bob and Schechter.

"What do we do," Schechter said. "Do we explain it to everybody? It's going to sound pretty weird. I mean. Married, except not really, and you just take care of my horses?"

He was looking at Bob like he actually wanted Bob's opinion.

"Whatever you decide is fine," Bob said, just in case what Schechter actually wanted was a lack of opinion.

"Fine," Schechter repeated. He sounded irritated. "Fine. Everything is fine with you, isn't it."

Sighing, Schechter scrubbed a hand down his face. When he spoke again, Bob could hear him making the effort to be patient.

"Bob. Look. The only way I'm going to feel comfortable putting you in charge of my horses is if I'm sure you've got an actual brain in your head, and you are capable of using it to form thoughtful, intelligent opinions about things. And I need you to be able to share those opinions with me even if you think I might not like them. Okay? Because sometimes I might be wrong and you might be right, and I don't want things getting fucked up because you're too spineless to speak your mind."

By the time he finished, he'd given up on patience. Bob could feel himself flushing, which he hated. He felt stupid, like anything he could possibly say was going to be the wrong thing.

But more than that, he was really pissed off. Schechter had it within his power -- it was pretty much his legal right -- to make Bob's life hell if he wanted to, and he was giving Bob shit for trying to be careful. Just like during their conversation in Lord Ellis' stable, Bob couldn't tell if Schechter was being an asshole or if he really was that clueless. _But now's as good a time as any to find out_, he thought.

"If it's something important," Bob said. "If it's something that has to do with the well-being of your horses, I will tell you what I think. This is not important. I don't give a damn what you tell people. I'm pretty sure whatever you come up with couldn't be too much worse than what the Baron told everybody about me, because --"

He snapped his mouth shut, catching himself barely in time. He hadn't meant to say quite that much. It took everything he had at that moment not to go bang his head on a wall for being pathetic and stupid, but he held Schechter's gaze.

"The point is," he said through gritted teeth. "Tell people whatever you want."

He steeled himself for any kind of reaction. His stepfather would have started yelling at him before he'd said even that much; the Baron would have slapped him. Schechter hadn't done either, had just stood there silently while Bob said his piece. Whatever Schechter thought of what Bob had said, he didn't give it away, either. His startled blink faded to the same unreadable expression he'd had back in the master bedroom.

But Bob knew that sometimes anger welled up in a slow burn, so he stayed still and waited.

The dogs sensed the tension. Duke had stood up during Schechter's tirade, keeping an eye on Bob. As the moment drew out and the silence got uncomfortable, Tulip sidled up to Bob, looking back and forth between the two men. Finally she sat, leaning heavily against Bob's leg and nosing at his hand.

The easy affection caught Bob off guard. Between that and her solid warmth, Bob couldn't hang onto his anger or his embarrassment. It rushed out of him, leaving him feeling travel-weary and tired.

He still didn't know what Schechter would do about the outburst, but Bob made himself shrug. Looking off down the quiet row of stables while he stroked a hand over the Simarg's broad head, he said, "Anyway, if you already told your staff the truth, people will hear about it. The staff grapevine moves quicker than the post."

The huff of a soft laugh startled Bob and drew his gaze back to Schechter.

"Good point," Schechter said. He gave Bob a faint, distracted smile. "I guess it's not really something I need to worry about right now anyway."

And that was it. That was all the reaction Bob got. Shaking off his irritation and whatever else Bob's loud words had made him think, Schechter grasped the handle on the stable door and pulled. The door slid open with a soft rumble, and the scent of hay and the sweet musk of horse drifted out.

A bit stunned and not entirely sure what had just happened, Bob stood where he was as Schechter and the dogs stepped into the barn. When Schechter glanced over his shoulder and noticed Bob hadn't followed, his distracted smile turned amused.

"Come on in," Schechter said. "Come meet my best girl."

*

Schechter's favorite horse was Melody, a graceful black mare. Her silver horns, narrow and delicate on their own, grew twisted around each other into a sturdy, false uni-horn.

"She's beautiful," Bob said. He didn't bother trying to keep the appreciation out of his voice. 'Beautiful' hardly began to describe her. "Arabian, right? Is she pure-bred?"

"Yep." Schechter leaned an elbow on the half-door of the stall, stretching a hand out as she lumbered over to greet him.

Her eyes were big and warm, her belly round and full. Bob guessed she was only a few weeks from foaling.

"She's my only purebred, which is not the reason she's my favorite," Schechter said. "She's the first I purchased to start my own farm. The farm where I apprenticed breeds mostly Arabians. The owner and the head trainer are still friends of mine, and they contacted me about her back when she was just a filly." He smoothed a hand down her neck as she bumped at his shoulder with her nose. "Her mother took ill and passed away before she was weaned. They could have gotten decent money for her because of her pedigree, but she wouldn't take to a nurse mare and they knew I'd take good care of her, get her through that first year."

Bob stayed where he was, a few feet back. It could sometimes take a bit for an Arabian to get used to people, and a pregnant mare tended to be extra cautious. While the mare nuzzled Schechter and lipped affectionately at his ear, she also kept a close eye on Bob.

"How old is she?" Bob asked.

"Turned six last August. I would have bred her in her fifth year, but I had just got this place." He scratched her chin and smiled when she stretched her neck out and smacked her lips at him."I wanted her to get comfortable here first."

"Is the father pure-bred, or are you breeding for something in particular?" Arabian crosses were more and more popular, breeding endurance into the various other racing breeds -- Bob's stepfather sold off several of his under-performing Thoroughbreds to purchase a couple of Arabian crossbreeds.

"Pure-bred. I've got a friend who has a thing for Arabians -- he's got a small army of them. I keep an eye out for him when I go on scouting trips, so when he found out I was looking to breed Melody he let me borrow one of his studs."

"No stud fee?" Bob asked.

"Nope." Giving the mare a last rub on the nose, Schechter backed up to stand beside Bob. His whole expression had gone soft and he couldn't seem to stop smiling at the horse. "Pete wouldn't let me pay him a dime. He's a good friend."

A damn good friend, Bob thought. The stud fee on a pure-bred was a hefty chunk of cash.

"She's good-tempered," Schechter said. "But you'll have to spend some time out here to get her used to you."

Bob nodded politely, and wondered why the hell he was even here if Schechter thought he didn't know something that basic.

But then Schechter shook his head at himself and said, "Which you know. Sorry. A friend of mine has been coming over to take care of the horses while I'm away; I've known him for years and I know how good he is, but I still try to tell him what to do. Bad habit. Don't take it personally."

Somewhat mollified, Bob followed Schechter through the rest of the foaling barn. He met the other pair of mares, living in the barn with Melody to keep her company, and Schechter showed him the groom's apartment. It was a small room midway down the length of the barn, already set up with a cot and a washstand. Once Melody got closer to her due date, someone would spend the nights there to be near in case she went into labor during the dark hours.

"And don't take this personally either," Schechter said. "I heard great things about you from your stepfather's stable crew, but if I'm not traveling I'll be the one out here. I want a shot at being the one to help her through the birth."

That and the way Schechter acted around the horses just in general did a lot to ease Bob's mind about the entire situation. He thought maybe his stepfather's stable master had been right, when she told Bob not to worry. After Schechter had got done interviewing Katherine and her apprentices at Ellis' stable, she had come to find Bob. She'd told him about the things Schechter had asked, and how she'd responded.

Bob had listened and tried not to let it show that he was feeling a little spun by everything, from what had happened with the Baron to the fact that suddenly he was married again and going off to live with someone he didn't know again. But Katherine had either seen it or guessed.

Her personality tended to gruffness, and in all the years Bob had known her -- practically been raised by her -- she'd never been one for physical affection. But she'd sat down next to him on the bench in the training stable and thumped him on the knee with her knuckles.

"The man is good to his horses," she'd said. "I hear nothing but good about how he treats his horses. So don't worry. You'll be fine."

Bob didn't believe things were that simple. A person could dote on their horses but be cruel to the humans in his household.

Still, the more he watched Schechter beam at his horses and lay wet, smacking kisses on their noses, and the more Schechter rambled on about each of their quirks and failed at scowling convincingly at them when mentioning their shortcomings, the more the knot in Bob's gut started to loosen. Maybe Schechter would turn out to be a son of a bitch after all, but at least he and Bob had some common ground where the horses were concerned.

Brian walked Bob through both occupied barns. Most of the stalls were empty. The set-up could house up to thirty horses comfortably, but at that point Schechter only had six of his own horses, plus four horses he'd purchased to sell. The huge main barn wasn't being used at all. Besides the mares in the foaling barn, Schechter kept the horses in the small training barn.

It was cozy, though, and the barns were tidy and in perfect condition despite their age. Bob could see where a lot of work had been done to repair the stone portions of the walls and replace wood, seal cracks and reinforce beams. It wasn't patchy or half-assed work, either; it looked good.

By the time they got through with the tour of the barns, the sun had set and the rest of Schechter's on-site staff were gone. There apparently weren't many of them -- just a cook, a gardener and a housekeeper (although the way Schechter said it sounded like "housekeeper," with quotes around it). The staff all got a couple nights a week off and this was one of them. Bob would have to meet them the next day.

They found roast chicken and vegetables waiting for them in the kitchen, and ate sitting on stools at the cook's work table. Schechter grabbed plates and utensils and dropped onto a stool like taking meals in the kitchen was a common thing. Bob wondered how often they'd eat in the dining room, if ever.

Not that he minded. He was more comfortable in kitchens than in dining rooms.

Things got uncomfortable again later, though. They went to Schechter's study to go over things they hadn't gotten to in the barns -- the horses' diets, exercise and training schedules, budget for that portion of the household, information about a couple of other horses Schechter was considering investing in for resale.

While they talked Schechter had a couple glasses of wine. He offered Bob a glass, and Bob accepted to be polite, but hardly put a dent in it. Still, between that, all of the travel and general strangeness of the past couple of days, and the late hour, Bob eventually started drooping.

Which meant it was time for bed.

The wine hadn't made Schechter loose or blurry yet, but it smoothed him out around the edges. When he caught Bob stifling a yawn, though, some of the tension came back.

Schechter cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. Watching the wine slosh in his glass as he swirled it, he said, "You know what, I've got to go over some papers Greta sent over this morning. So I'll be awake for a while. You can go to bed, though."

Bob set his own glass, still half full, carefully on the edge of Schechter's desk. The knot in his stomach had tightened up again, and as he stood thoughts tripped over themselves in his head.

Everything so far that day had gone exactly as Schechter had implied when he'd made Bob the offer -- _"Just come work for me. That's all. It wouldn't be a marriage except on paper."_

But given a couple of days for the reality of the situation to set in, things could start to look a little different to a person.

_What are you expecting,_ Bob wanted to say. Or, _am I really just here to take care of your horses?_

He couldn't get the words out though. Instead he just nodded, took one of the lamps from Schechter's desk, and showed himself out.

The hallway was pitch black outside the halo of light cast by his lamp, and it was a struggle not to jump at every flickering shadow. On one hand, Bob worried a little about what the house might do to him as he made his way alone to the bedroom; on the other, he couldn't shut his brain up to stop wondering what was going to happen later in that bedroom with the house's owner.

He wished he could sleep in the stables. The groom's quarters in the foaling barn or a loft in one of the others -- he wasn't picky. But he couldn't. Legally, he couldn't. It was in the marriage contract.

Ms. Morgan had told him that the marital bed stipulation had been all been Lord Ellis' idea. Bob could believe that. When the Baron had sent Bob back, he'd lied and told Ellis that Bob refused to share his bed more than once a week. He'd said he had servants who could testify that Bob had his own room and preferred to sleep there alone -- which were actually both true facts. The lie was in the fact that Bob's preferences never really mattered, and regardless of where he slept he rarely sleep alone.

It was Bob's word against the Baron's, though. So making sure Bob had to share a room with his new husband could just be an attempt to avoid a repeat of that situation.

But Bob couldn't help but wonder if Schechter might have discussed it with him in advance, and supported it. Because why _would_ someone agree to a marriage just to get a stable master, unless they also wanted something else that could be had through marriage?

As he made his way up the curving staircase, the entryway below vanished in darkness. The house was utterly silent, but it was the kind of silence found in a held breath. Bob felt watched. It creeped him out enough that he picked up his pace, hurrying to get to the bedroom and shut himself in.

He changed into a nightshirt, making sure to put his clothes away neatly. Then he set the lamp on the table on his side of the bed and went to shut the window.

Earlier, he'd caught a glimpse of the view out that window, of a long stretch of lawn and gardens bordered by another length of stone wall. Outside the wall were crop fields, stretching out to a distant tree line, green with the first spring growth.

Now it was all dark, barely lit by the thin crescent moon and the splash of stars in the sky. He could see lights in the fields, though -- the night fairies venturing out of the surrounding woods, their dull glow making dim streaks as they flitted through the darkness.

Pulling the window shut, Bob latched it and drew the curtains. Then he had no excuse not to get into bed. So he did.

He shifted around until he found where he could stay as close to the edge as possible without falling out. When he reached for the lamp to open the glass and blow out the candle, the candle went out on its own.

His heart stopped and his breath caught in his throat, which was the only reason he didn't shriek like a little girl. Then he realized the north window was still open, the curtains fluttering as a breeze kicked up and curled into the room.

Probably the lamp wasn't tightly shut and the breeze had put it out. That made sense.

Bob shoved the covers off and slid out of the bed to go shut the window. As soon as his feet hit the floor the window swung in on silent hinges -- against the direction of the breeze -- clicked shut, and latched.

Bob sat back down on the bed.

He cleared his throat.

"Thank you?" he said to the room, because it never hurt to be polite.

He sat for a while, but nothing else happened. Eventually he got back under the covers and lay down.

*

He was still awake when Schechter stumbled in later, smelling of wine, and fumbled himself into bed.

*

He was still awake even later, when Schechter started kicking and twitching in his sleep.

*

Eventually the room started to glow with sunrise, and Bob could stop pretending he was ever going to fall asleep.

As quietly as he could, he rolled out of bed, dressed, and slipped out to the stables.

*

**THREE**

Brian woke up with a cottony mouth and a cottony head. His bedroom didn't look right, and for a second couldn't figure out where he was.

Then he remembered he'd moved into the master bedroom. Then he remembered why.

_Ah. Right_, he thought, pressing his knuckles against his eyes. _I'm married. Shit._

He was curled up with his back to the other side of the bed, where...

Trying to think the words 'my husband' threatened to make the mildly hung over, coffee-starved blood vessels in his head explode, so he gave up on it.

Bob. Just Bob. It wasn't a real marriage anyway, thank god, so there was no point in applying distressingly matrimonial words to the situation.

So, Bob. Brian couldn't tell if Bob was in bed with him. Steeling himself, he eased onto his back and made himself look.

No one was there.

"Oh thank god," Brian said. He flung his arms out with a deep sigh and squeezed his sleep-gritty eyes shut in relief.

Because, honestly. He had no idea what he would have done or said if he'd woken up and there was someone, _Bob_, laying there looking at him. Laying there being married to him.

It was going to be weird enough to go downstairs and find Bob eating breakfast, drinking coffee, living in the house, walking around, breathing -- doing all kinds of things like that while at the same time being married to Brian.

A gurgle from his washstand and the soft click of the window latch unhooking made him sigh again. As the window swung open the chill morning air filtered into the room, fresh but bringing goose bumps up on his bare arms.

"All right," he muttered. "I'm getting up."

Sometimes, for example if he'd had too much to drink the night before or if he had been traveling or had been out at a friend's late, his internal clock didn't wake him up. There were days when he could have slept all day before he woke himself up.

However, when his internal clock broke, the house made sure to pick up the slack. He'd been woken up by the wardrobe doors slamming repeatedly, the windows rattling, the bed shaking. On one memorable occasion, one time when he was exhausted from traveling _and_ really drunk, the mattress had heaved him out of the bed onto the floor, and the washstand had sloshed water on him.

Brian was fairly certain that the house didn't actually hate him. According to the locals, people who moved in tended to vanish mysteriously, never to be seen again, but Brian had been there more than a year without anything fatal happening to him. Other than a couple of staff he hired early on who fled after only a couple of nights, he hadn't lost a single person to it at all, in fact.

So clearly it didn't _hate_ him. But he did feel that sometimes it went out of its way to annoy the hell out of him.

The forceful morning wake-up calls were one of the obnoxious things the house did that Brian didn't mind, though. He had horses to see to, and with the house there to kick him out of bed every morning he didn't have to worry about neglecting them just because he was tired or hung over.

"But there is Bob now," he said to the room as he shuffled over to the washstand. "He's here to run my stables, so I don't actually have to be up at the crack of dawn every day. You could let me sleep in sometime."

The house made no indication it was listening, though Brian could imagine it silently laughing at him.

The water in the basin was just cool enough to make him suck in a startled breath and to take some of the fuzz out of his head. While he pulled on clean pants and shirt and dug his boots out from under the bed, he mentally flipped through the list of things he wanted to do that morning.

He needed to feed the horses and check on Melody. The forest border fence on the southeast pasture was only half finished and the entire southwest border was still fenceless, so he needed to try to make a little headway on that. He needed to do a walk-through of the mare's pasture to make sure the weasels were doing their job. He should probably find out how the spring planting had gone out on the farm acreage.

And he should probably find his new stable master...husband...thing and put him to work.

Brian scowled at himself as he tugged the laces on his boots. _I think I'll just stick with 'Bob.'_

The first thing he needed to do, though, was find coffee. Brian navigated out of the bedroom pointed himself in the direction of the kitchen.

Spencer was already there. He had probably been out most of the night with Ryan and the others, but he didn't look tired in the slightest. He'd clearly been up for a while; coffee was made on the stove, and it looked like the pantry had exploded over every work surface in the kitchen.

"Is it bread day and I just lost track of time?" Brian said.

He wove his way toward the coffee, dodging his cook, the tables and also Jon Walker, who did not work for Brian nor live in his house but was parked on a stool anyway, stirring something in a bowl.

"Nope," Spencer said. He didn't pause what he was doing -- slicing apples precisely and expertly and at a speed that always made Brian wonder how the kid still had all his fingers.

"It's breakfast," Jon added helpfully.

Jon was Greta's highest-grade apprentice; he'd come by the previous day to drop off Brian's copy of the marriage contract and a stack of other papers related to some potential upcoming sales. By the look of his rumpled shirt and bed-head, he hadn't made it back to his own place in town yet.

That happened more and more frequently, actually. At this point, whenever Jon came by with a delivery Brian could expect to run into him coming out of Spencer's room in the morning or find him helping out in the kitchen. Brian didn't mind; Jon was a good guy, quiet and friendly. However --

"If Greta tries to start charging me for on-site legal consulting I'm banning you from this house," Brian said.

Jon at least had the decency to look a little chagrined, though it came with a smile.

Brian poured himself a cup of coffee and stood drinking it for a few moments, letting it wake him up. Eventually Jon's information sank in.

"Wait. Breakfast? All of this?"

He looked around again, and no, he hadn't dreamed it: it did in fact look like Spencer was making enough food for a small army.

But Spencer just shrugged. "I wanted to try out a few different things. It won't go to waste. If it doesn't get eaten this morning, most of it will keep for several days."

"Ah. Got you." The way Spencer went through food phases, Brian would not be surprised to find them all eating breakfast for lunch and dinner for the next week. "Has Bryar been down this morning?"

"No, haven't seen him," Spencer said.

"And we've been down here since, oh, sunrise," Jon said, using the wooden spoon to poke bubbles in his bowlful of batter. "Possibly a little earlier..."

Spencer shot him an exasperated look that Brian didn't bother trying to decipher. If Bob hadn't come to the kitchen for breakfast, then Brian would wager he'd gone straight to the stables. Brian refilled his cup, and then filled another one for Bob. He didn't know if Bob took coffee or tea, but if Bob didn't want the coffee Brian would be more than willing to finish it off. He also stuffed the little packet of sugar cubes in his pocket, for either Bob, if he took sugar, or the horses, if he didn't.

"Okay." He headed toward the servant's entrance at the back of the kitchen. "We'll come up in about a half hour to eat. Okay?"

Spencer twitched a salute with his knife, and as Brian ducked out the door Jon called, "We'll be here with bells on."

*

A thin mist clung to the gardens; even though the sun hadn't made its way up over the trees the sky was bright blue. The fresh, chill morning air felt good, and made the heat and bitterness of the coffee that much more savory. Brian hated the part of the day where he had to get out of bed, but he loved the part where he got to be outside in a perfect morning, walking across his own lawn at his own house, on his way to his horses.

The courtyard door of the foaling barn was closed against the chill, but not latched; Brian was able to nudge it open with his foot.

Inside he found the barn swept, the horses half way through their morning feed, and Melody's neighbor Blackberry out of her stall.

A stocky Paint mare with a sweet face, Blackberry had a steady temperament and got along with pretty much everybody. Brian hadn't suggested it to Bob, but anyone wanting to make friends with Brian's horses would be smart to start with her. Bob had apparently figured that out for himself.

Bob had already brushed her down -- her coat was glossy, and her mane and tail were smooth and tidy. Her twin horns, streaky ivory that grew straight out from her forehead for several inches before turning up in brief arcs, were polished and shiny. When Brian came in, Bob had already moved on to cleaning out her hooves.

None of it was really necessary. Brian usually took care of those activities in the afternoon, so Blackberry wasn't going to be all that messy first thing in the morning. But grooming wasn't entirely the point. Blackberry had already gotten comfortable enough with Bob to ignore him. While Bob carefully lifted her leg and cradled her hoof, and scraped out what little gunk had accumulated since the previous day, Blackberry got a mouthful of oats and, while she munched them, swung her head over to trade nose nuzzles with Melody over Bob's bent back.

Melody split her attention, too, between food and Blackberry and the stranger outside her stall. She stood close to the stall door so she could poke her head out now and then to meet Blackberry's touches. If it had only been Bob outside her stall she would have most likely stuck to the far side of her feed bin, back from the door. Blackberry had drawn her forward.

Bob paid no attention to her. All his attention was on Blackberry, handling her gently and talking softly to her. It was a good trick to get Melody used to him -- Melody picked up on Blackberry's comfort level, and felt safe to check Bob out behind his back.

"I'm here," Brian said quietly. "So you don't startle when you turn around and see me."

Bob nodded. "Heard you come in, and smelled the coffee."

Even though Bob couldn't have seen it, Brian suppressed a smile. "I brought you a cup, if you're a coffee drinker. I didn't put any cream in, but I brought sugar."

Brian wasn't sure if he imagined the way Bob paused midway through setting Blackberry's hoof down. When Bob turned, resting a hand on Blackberry's shoulder and tapping the hoof pick against his thigh, his expression was the blank neutral Brian was already getting used to seeing. For a moment Bob just looked at him.

In the weird, brief silence, Brian was torn between feeling stupid and wanting to apologize, and getting defensive and keeping the coffee for himself. He couldn't figure out which way to go, though. Or why he even felt so uncomfortable. _Over a cup of coffee. What the hell._

"I like it black," Bob said finally. "Thanks."

Relaxing -- though again he didn't know why -- Brian handed off the coffee. He wandered over to lean on Melody's stall door and tell her good morning. It was awkward; normally Brian enjoyed the morning quiet, but the silence hung between him and Bob like something that ought to be filled. Only, neither of them seemed to know what to say. They just sipped their coffee, looking just about anywhere except at each other.

After a bit Bob stuck the hoof pick in his back pocket and led Blackberry back into her stall.

As he came out to hang up her halter, he said, "Did you know you have weasels?"

Brian scanned the barn. There weren't any out and about at the moment, but a nesting pair lived under the forest-side corner of the barn. He wouldn't be surprised if Bob had seen some activity when he was sweeping. One of the weasels usually came out to glare at anybody who got too close to the nest with a broom.

"Mm," Brian said, finishing off his coffee. "There are nests in all the barns, and a few around the perimeter of the pastures."

Bob's neutral expression shifted a bit toward surprised. "I'm surprised the dogs haven't taken care of them. Have you tried trapping?"

"Oh no, the dogs are trained to leave them alone. The weasels keep the basilisks away from the stables, and keep the basilisk population down just in general."

Bob blinked at him. "You have basilisks?"

Brian nodded. "They keep the nixie population down." When Bob just stared at him, Brian said, "Um. Keeps the hobs happy. Because hobs hate nixies, you know?"

It was truly amazing how stupid Bob could make Brian feel just by staring expressionlessly at him. Brian wondered if he practiced that look in the mirror.

"You have hobs?" Bob said.

"I have sixty acres of farmland with hob colonies all over the place, actually," Brian said. "It came with the house. Nobody would buy the land in parcels because of the hobs, and nobody would buy the house because...well, obviously. But I got this place dirt cheap because of all of that, so I'm not complaining." He hesitated. "Well. Much."

"But." There was a flicker of 'you are either crazy or an idiot' in Bob's expression. He seemed full of questions, but instead of asking any of them he shrugged them off. "Makes sense, I guess. So long as the weasels keep the basilisks away from the horses."

"They do." The way Bob's disbelief and curiosity just faded away bugged Brian a little. But Bob had said he'd speak up if he felt it was important enough, and Brian was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. So he just said, "What else have you got through this morning so far?"

They took a walk through the foaling barn, and then stopped into the barn next to it, currently occupied by the horses not commandeered to keep Melody company. Bob had cleaned up in there already too, and fed and watered all the horses. They finished the rest of the other morning chores together -- mostly in awkward silence, of course.

After that they walked the southeast pasture so that Bob could see the fence-in-progress. Brian had mainly been working on it himself. Occasionally he dragged Brendon out to help, but Brendon was pretty busy with all of the spring gardening. Also he never shut up, which Brian could only deal with for so long.

That meant he hadn't gotten far, so he was glad to finally have some full-time help. Bob even had ideas for making the process go faster and dealing with the tree roots that Brian kept running into when he dug the post holes.

As they walked and talked, Bob got so focused on the topic of pasture fencing that for a while he relaxed. Brian almost didn't notice -- it only showed in little things, like the way his shoulders unhunched a bit, and the way his careful neutrality smoothed out to something a little warmer.

It seemed as though Bob relaxed wasn't all that different than Bob uptight, honestly. Brian still liked it better, though.

Then they found themselves back at the barn. As soon as Brian mentioned breakfast, Bob seemed to remember where he was and who he was with, and turned cool and closed off again.

Brian let it go. Bob would either loosen up eventually, or he wouldn't. Brian didn't really care one way or the other so long as Bob did his job.

*

They washed up in the mudroom outside of the laundry room, and then used one of the house's extra passages to cut through to the kitchen.

"Technically they're not secret passages, because everybody knows about them," Brian told Bob as they navigated sudden sharp corners in the dark, narrow corridor. "Although there probably are some actual secret passages that the house hasn't shown us. Or there will be, because Ross loves secret passages. Between him and the house this place is probably going to be a labyrinth when they're through with it."

"Your houseboy builds secret passages?" Bob said.

Brian counted the fourth turn and slowed down; Bob had been sticking close enough that he stepped on Brian's heels and almost ran into him.

"Sorry," Brian said. "Door's coming up. But, oh, Ross? Yes, yes he does build secret passages. And strangely shaped rooms. And stairway extensions that go nowhere. He also paints and redecorates. About the only thing that's in his actual job description that he does is laundry and mending, to be honest. He bribes Urie to do the dusting and mopping."

They reached the end of the passage and Brian put his shoulder to the door. The set of storage barrels attached to the door on the kitchen side to hide it grated over the floor as Brian pushed it open.

When they got out into the kitchen, Brian caught the tail-end of another 'you are a crazy person' expression. He knew Bob wouldn't ask, but told him anyway.

"Getting people to work here is hard," Brian said. "And the house loves him. That's why I keep him on."

"And you like him," Brendon said, ducking into the kitchen to grab a tray of what looked like little stuffed pastries. He grinned broadly. "Whoever you're talking about. Because you have a soft spot in your cold, cold heart for all of us, don't even try to deny it."

Brian ignored that and pointed at Brendon, saying to Bob, "That's Brendon Urie, my gardener. The roses in his greenhouse are probably where all of those rose petals came from. Thanks for that, by the way," he added to Brendon, along with a dirty look.

Brendon held up a hand and said around the pastry in his mouth, "Not my idea. Ryan decimated my roses. Viciously."

When Brian just narrowed his eyes, Brendon swallowed the pastry and said, deliberately thoughtful, "Well...or I might have given him a heads up so he could come follow me around when I deadheaded the wilted ones...I can't really remember."

He'd eased out of the room as he talked, and vanished down the hallway before Brian could respond. Brian just shook his head.

"Looks like we're eating in the dining room this morning," he said.

At first Brian thought maybe Spencer and the others decided on the dining room because they wanted to make a good impression on Bob. For example, lead Bob to believe that they and their boss were actually high class people who didn't park themselves at tables in the kitchen and eat with their fingers most meals.

But it turned out to be simply a question of seating space.

Brian stopped just inside the door of the dining room. "Well, this explains all of the food."

He felt Bob stop behind him, still out in the hallway. Hiding from the mob, probably. Brian didn't blame him.

"Apparently every single person who works for me, even on a seasonal basis, showed up to meet you, Bob." He sent a glare around the table and added under his breath, "Sorry about that."

"Rumor has it you got hitched, Schechter. We had to come see if it was true," Gabe said. He had his chair pushed back far enough from the table that he could prop his feet up on it, which was pretty far since he was freakishly tall. Gabe pointed at him with a fork full of something. "You're just lucky Pete and Bert and their entire households didn't show up too."

He let his feet fall with a thump and dragged his chair back up to the table. Then he slouched on an elbow and leered at Bob.

"I can see the appeal. I've been holding out for my Victoria, but maybe I should give her up and find me a pretty, pretty boy instead."

Vicky was sitting beside him; Brian didn't see her move but Gabe yelped and lurched in his chair, clutching his side.

Glancing back at Bob, Brian saw he'd gone stiff at Gabe's insinuation. Stiffer than usual anyway. Brian winced.

"That's Gabe Saporta," he said. "He is full of shit and a professional dickhead, except when he's managing sales of our harvests. Then he's a fairly competent businessman."

"Wounded from _all sides_," Gabe said. He didn't actually try to look wounded though, snapping his fingers at Jon to pass the fruit platter.

Brian went around the table from there, introducing Bob to Vicky -- "local hedge witch, takes care of what ails us and also makes nice with the hobs so they don't ruin our crops" -- the small crew of Alexes and other local kids that Gabe kept on Brian's payroll to work the fields, Ryan, Spencer, Jon --

"And..." Brian paused when he got to the girl sitting between Ryan and Brendon. "Do I know you?"

The blond stood just enough to reach over the back of her chair and offer Brian her hand.

"Z Berg," she said. "I'm a friend of Ryan's."

Brian shook her hand. "Do you work for me?"

He was pretty sure he didn't remember hiring her. Even if he gave other staff the go-ahead to find people when a position needed to be filled, Brian usually did the actual, official hiring.

"No. Ryan invited me to stay for breakfast." When she sat down she laid a hand on Ryan's leg. His expression as he gazed at her was either half-stoned or half stupid in love, Brian couldn't tell. "I hope that's all right?"

"Ah. Yeah, that's fine." Brian turned to Bob. "And that is apparently Z, who, much like Jon, does not work for me but came to breakfast anyway."

Bob's eyebrows twitched up, and he nodded. Despite the stiffness and his obvious discomfort at being stared at by nearly a dozen strangers, Brian detected a hint of amusement in Bob's eyes.

To the room at large Brian said, "And this is Bob Bryar. We are married, the details are nobody's goddamned business but our own so don't ask, and he's going to run the stables and take care of my horses. Any questions?"

He didn't wait to see if anyone had any; he pointed Bob's seat out to him and then headed to his own.

The seating arrangement had left the chairs at both ends of the table empty, but at least someone had had the good sense to flank Bob's chair with Spencer and Jon. Out of everyone there, they were the least bizarre. Brian could send Bob off to sit with them and not have to worry too much about Bob getting groped, drawn on, confused, talked to death or (depending if Vicky was having a good day or not) terrified with stories of the things angry hobs are capable of doing to sleeping human beings.

Brian tried to keep an eye on him anyway, but at some point Ryan started talking about how he wanted to add a tower to the back of the house to take advantage of the view -- "It's miles of farmland, Ross." "_Gorgeous_ farmland, and magnificent sunsets!" -- and insisted that it was the house's idea to begin with. That distracted Brian for a good fifteen minutes with arguing that the house does not actually speak and Ryan needed to smoke less weed in Brian's house please.

By the time he remembered to check on Bob, Jon Walker was talking, with hand gestures, telling a story. Smith had sat back in his chair, failing badly at not laughing, and Bob --

Bob had his chin propped on his hand while he listened. He had his 'you people are crazy' stare going. But even though his mouth was hidden behind his curled fingers, Brian thought he could see an almost-smile back there.

Tension Brian hadn't realized he'd been holding in drained away a little. After all of the awkwardness of the morning, and given how much of a disaster this breakfast could have been, Bob's ease was an incredible relief.

For the first time since Brian had gotten pissed off at Lord Ellis for being such an ass to his stepson and ended up married for his trouble, he thought maybe, _maybe_ this might work.

*

They fell fairly quickly into a routine.

Bob took his responsibilities in the stables just as seriously as Ellis's stable master had indicated he would. By the time Brian (or the house) rolled himself out of bed every morning, Bob had already been up for a couple of hours and had most of the morning chores done.

He was also as competent as advertised. Actually, more so than Brian had hoped. Brian tended not to set his expectations too high just habitually; that way he could be sure that an individual or animal would at least meet Brian's lowest acceptable standards. Anything better would be a pleasant surprise.

Bob was definitely a pleasant surprise. He won over Brian's entire stable in no time. Not that Brian had particularly unfriendly horses, but a few of them had quirks that made them a little harder to manage.

The worst of the bunch was a pinto unicorn called Rocky, who Brian had bought from a supremely impatient owner back when Rocky was a supremely bullheaded two year old. Brian had trained most of Rocky's bad habits out of him, but the horse still liked to feel out new people by crowding them into the side of his stall or into fences, and trying to whack them on the head with his horn.

All it took to show him who was boss was gentle pressure to make him back off the crowding, or a light yank on his halter to stop the horn-whacking. Any harsher reaction tended to piss him off, though. He'd be an obstinate, uncooperative jerk for weeks until he got over it. Then he'd go back to the crowding and horn whacking and start the whole cycle over again.

Brian went through most of the horses' peculiarities with Bob the day Bob arrived, but he left out the truly annoying and difficult things. Possibly that was high-handed and manipulative of him, but in Brian's opinion the way a person dealt with unexpected trouble said more about the individual's temperament than the way they handled controlled situations.

It turned out that Bob's default reaction when it came to dealing with any inappropriate behavior from the horses was to use firm, but mild, commands. He'd try the least physically aggressive command first, and only escalate if the horse refused to respond to it. He was patient, and good at reading body language, and in Rocky's case headed off the posturing before it hardly got started.

So even though Brian kept an eye on Bob over the first week, it didn't take him long to be certain that his horses were in good hands with his new stable master.

"I started out at a stable where they bred mostly racehorses," Brian said, pausing as Bob followed him out of the paddock and latched the gate. "And I know that there are plenty of people who take great care of their racehorses. But I'd rather do something that's not quite as hard on the horses."

They followed the fence toward the second barn. All of the horses aside from Melody were turned out for the day. Melody had balked at leaving her stall, and they'd let her have her way. At this point she spent a lot of her time snoozing anyway.

They'd gotten on the subject of where Brian hoped to go with his stables one day. If he had his way, and if he ever managed to save enough money for it, he wanted to breed and train show horses.

Bob nodded. "I've done training for dressage and show-jumping. That won't be a problem."

Brian's stocky gray was rubbing his head on one of the pasture's horn posts, but pulled his head up as they went by. Goose had to lift his head high to see beneath his horns -- thick, black things that coiled heavily over his eyes.

Brian didn't know anything about his parentage, but the breed was popular with farmers and soldiers. The difficulty seeing around their horns made them jumpy, but good for walking up and down straight rows in the fields where they weren't bound to run across anything more surprising than rabbits. On the other hand, in the right hands, that jumpiness could be funneled into alertness, and their natural inclination to run _at_ danger, head down and horns first, was useful on the battlefield.

Goose was too old to do much hard work of any kind, though. From the beginning of the growing season to the harvest season, Victoria borrowed him now and then to inspect the fields and visit her hobs. Beyond that he was just a good casual riding horse. So long as his arthritis wasn't flaring up, he was happiest plodding along quiet lanes and through fields.

Given his age and condition, Goose was not horse Brian had purchased to show. Actually, at the moment Brian had a motley collection of mostly work horses of varying ages, plus an Arabian that was a speed demon when she wasn't pregnant, and a half-blind Appaloosa. So quite honestly, none of his horses were potential show horses at the moment.

He really was saving up to one day have a nice selection of Thoroughbreds and warmbloods. But in the meantime he kept running across animals being sold dirt cheap because there was something wrong with them and most people felt they weren't worth the trouble to train or feed. He didn't buy every single one he saw, but a few of them...he couldn't help it.

He kept telling everyone that he was getting a handle on that, and that he _would_ start saving more and splurging on useless horses less. No one seemed to believe him, though.

"Anyway. I know it probably seems pointless training any of this bunch," Brian said.

Bob was on the fence as they walked, and reached up to give Goose's neck a pat as they passed.

"Not really. You've got a couple that could do with learning the skills and discipline, just for their own sake," Bob said.

"True."

They came out from between the foaling barn and the second barn and hung a left toward the house's back kitchen entrance. Brian let the silence go for several paces, giving Bob a chance to mention the obvious. Almost everyone Brian introduced his horses to commented on the fact that from appearances it didn't really look like his goal was to eventually breed and train high-quality horses for competition.

Not Bob though. Brian glanced at him, and saw him worrying at the inside of his lip with his teeth. As far as Brian could tell, Bob did that when he was feeling thoughtful about something. If that was the case, though, he rarely said what he was thinking. That day was no different. Brian sighed.

"Anyway. One of these days my stables won't look like a home for reject horses, and there will be horses to train for real," he said. "Really. Oh, hang on a second."

Their walk to the kitchen took them along the wide gravel strip in front of the main barn. Instead of continuing past the barn, though, Brian detoured toward the center doors.

"What are you doing?" Bob said. He stopped, not following Brian.

_An actual question not related to horses_, Brian thought. _Shocking._

Because the thing about Bob was that if there were issues with the horses, or if he had any questions about the horses, Bob would speak up. But overall, Bob was a quiet guy.

Brian really didn't mind that; he had plenty of people in his life willing to talk his ear off, and after listening to the kind of bullshit a lot of clients tried to lay on him Brian occasionally preferred dead silence.

On the other hand, it turned out that Bob's silence didn't necessarily mean he didn't have questions. And the fact that Bob never said he needed anything didn't mean he actually didn't.

Brian had discovered this from his staff. He wasn't sure what bothered him more, the fact that he hadn't noticed Bob keeping things from him, or the fact that for some reason Bob felt more comfortable talking to other people about things.

As Brian swung up the heavy latch hooking the doors shut -- and it swung up silently and easily, whereas the last time Brian had gone into this barn the latch had stuck and screeched -- Bob stayed where he'd stopped.

"What I am doing is going into this barn," Brian said pleasantly. "You should come in with me."

Bob didn't respond, but after a moment's hesitation, he followed Brian in.

Whatever spirit possessed the house didn't have any influence over the grounds and unattached buildings, so when Brian had first moved in he'd found the house in good condition despite its neglect, but the stables had been a wreck. He had done repairs on the foaling barn first, and housed all of his horses -- just the four back then -- in that one. He'd gone through all of the barns and made sure that they were at least weatherproof, and not going to fall down any time soon. But he did full repairs only when he knew he'd need a barn.

The main barn he'd had to leave in disrepair. He loved it -- loved the huge, high windows, the vaulted ceiling, the ridiculously ornate mosaic and inlaid wood and metal details on the door frames, walls and wall-mounted hay feeders, the luxurious spaciousness of it. But since he technically didn't need it until he had a lot more horses, he couldn't justify letting other things go while he spent time on it. He went through it twice a year and did minimal repairs, but other than that he'd left it a mess.

It wasn't a mess anymore. Brian drew in a deep breath, and instead of mustiness, wild animal filth and a pervading, stale odor of abandonment, the air smelled clean.

A few of the high, big windows all along both the front and back of the barn were still boarded up. The others, though, were letting in light that wasn't weakened by having to go through layers of grime.

The rafters no longer hung with dirty cobwebs. The floor was swept; old straw, weasel droppings, the remnants of fallen birds' nests, and everything else that had littered the stalls had been cleaned out and disposed of. Some of the mosaics that he could see from where he stood just inside the door had been wiped down, bright splashes of color here and there.

"Wow," Brian said. "It looks like someone has been busy."

He tried to keep his voice light, and he raised his eyebrow in what Greta called his dorkiest, least convincingly imposing expression ever.

Bob looked nervous anyway. He started to say something, but then didn't, drumming his fingers against his leg and looking up and around at the windows.

When Brendon had mentioned that Bob was spending some of his spare time puttering around in the main barn and had actually gotten quite a bit done there so far, Brian figured there couldn't be too many possible reasons Bob hadn't said anything about it himself. Either he really didn't think it was a big deal, like he'd told Brendon; or he thought there was a possibility Brian would get upset.

Judging by Bob's reaction, it was the latter.

Which Brian did not get. Why the hell would he get mad about someone doing a damn fine job of cleaning up his barn? If he could have afforded it, he'd have hired someone to do it. If he could have trusted Brendon and Ryan not to kill themselves or turn the place into some kind of bizarre combination greenhouse-boudoir-barn, he might have asked them to work on it.

"I know you said you didn't have any plans for this barn right now," Bob said. "But I didn't think there would be any harm in just cleaning up a little. And I didn't let it interfere with my other chores."

He still wasn't looking at Brian; his gaze had drifted to the floor in a sideways direction. When Brian sighed and moved to prop his hands on his hips, Bob flinched.

For a moment, Brian couldn't speak. His words got stuck somewhere behind the sudden, overwhelming desire to kill somebody. He didn't know who, but somebody needed his face beat in and Brian really, really wanted to do it.

Because Brian knew damn well _he_ hadn't done anything since Bob had arrived that would give Bob cause to think Brian might hit him for _cleaning out a fucking barn._

He forced a calming breath. _This is really not the time for temper issues,_ he told himself.

The anger ebbed, and he reevaluated what he was going to say. His initial reaction had been to say, 'if you weren't sure if it would be a problem, why didn't you ask me?' But whatever had caused the minor rage blackout had also left him with the feeling that that would be the wrong response.

"Of course there's no harm in it," he said instead. He kept his voice steady and calm. "And I appreciate it, actually. The main reason I hadn't made any plans to fix this place up was just that I didn't have the time. But if you do have the time, you're more than welcome to do what you can."

He thought Bob might be relieved at that, and some of the tension did ease from his stance. But he still looked wound up for some reason.

"Okay," Bob said, uncomfortably. "Thanks."

Letting his gaze move around the barn, Brian made his hands unclench and his posture relax.

"I'm the one who should be thanking you. I love this barn." He realized he was speaking with the same tone and cadence he used on jumpy horses. He hoped Bob didn't notice that. "I can't wait to see what it will look like all fixed up. Let me know what you need for it, okay?"

When he glanced at Bob again, Bob was finally looking at him. He looked a little suspicious. Brian fought the urge to yell something along the lines of, 'stop that! I am a nice guy, dammit!'

"Like," Bob said. "Like what, like...supplies?"

"Yeah. Lumber. Tools." He waved in the general direction of the house. "I've got tools in the mudroom that you're welcome to use, but probably not everything you'd need. What do you think you'd want to do first?"

He knew what he'd do first -- finish re-shingling the roof and replace the broken windows, get the place fully weather-tight before putting too much time and money into the interior. He wanted to hear what Bob thought, though.

While Bob looked around the barn again, he crossed his arms tightly across his chest. Then he uncrossed them and fidgeted with the buttons on his sleeve.

"The roof is in decent shape, but it's got a few leaks," he said hesitantly. "A lot of missing shingles, and few spots where I think a good windstorm might pull a lot of the old shingles loose."

"So, shingles," Brian said.

Bob nodded. For a moment he shifted from foot to foot, sliding a sideways glance at Brian before seeming to come to a decision.

"And if we could replace the windows that need it," he said. "A few window frames are rotting, too, I'd need to pull the wood out and refit them."

"You can do that?"

Half-shrugging, Bob stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'd need some help. Ross seems to have half a clue about carpentry, even though I get the feeling the house does most of the work for him when he builds."

Brian snorted. Bob probably didn't know the half of it. Despite the fact that Brian's house had grown by several rooms and a couple thousand square feet since he'd hired Ryan, he hadn't purchased one scrap of building materials. When he asked Ryan where the stone, lumber, window panes, nails and whatever else came from, Ryan tended to just look shifty and say something vague like, "oh, I find stuff laying around. Like, the attic. The cellar. The...you know. Places."

"Okay," Brian said. "So, shingles, windows, lumber. Nails. Probably other things I'm not thinking of, too, so make a list for me, and I'll see what I can do."

"I will. Thanks."

This time, when Bob said it he didn't sound quite so unsure. Not as confident as Brian would have liked, but...better, somehow. Brian still half felt like he wanted to hit somebody, but the feeling subsided to an angry little undercurrent.

"All right," he said. "So that's settled. Let's go see what Smith made for lunch."

*

A few weeks later, when Bob had been there long enough to draw enough pay, Brian said at dinner one night, "I was thinking of maybe going into town later this week. I figure it would be a good idea to go now before Melody gets too close to her due date."

The house was empty but for him and Bob, with Spencer and the others out for their day off. The two of them were eating cold sandwiches in the kitchen. They'd spent most of the day riding, and Brian was feeling perfectly achy and sunburned. It was fantastic.

"Though there's nothing I need that I can't live without. So I suppose I could wait until after the foal is born," he said. And then added casually, "Unless there's anything you need in town?"

Bob had just taken an enormous bite of his sandwich. He had a truly impressive appetite. When he'd first arrived he'd stuck to fairly modest portions; these days he tended to fill his plate. Either his appetite had grown, or else he just felt more comfortable eating as much as he needed now.

Brian would not be the least bit surprised to find that Bob had been as cautious about what he ate as he was about everything else. At any rate, since Brian had started paying attention he'd noticed Bob wasn't just a naturally quiet guy. He was also the sort of person who went out of his way to be as unobtrusive and as little of a burden as possible.

For example, he was about to wear through his only pair of work boots. His only set of work clothes were getting frayed and thin through the elbows and knees. And he'd left his work gloves in the mud room the other day, and Brian had seen that seams had split and been mended a couple of times.

He needed new clothes, but he hadn't asked to go to town, or even to order from a tailor.

"No," Bob said. He rested his hand on his mug of milk, twisting it distractedly on the table. "There's nothing. If you don't need to go in."

Just as Brian was going to excuse himself so he could go bang his head on a wall in private, Bob cleared his throat.

"Though, if you do go, and you didn't mind if I went with you, maybe I could stop in at a shoemaker. I've got money," he added quickly. "So I'm not asking for you to buy me anything."

_No, you wouldn't_, Brian didn't say. He also didn't say that he'd be happy to buy Bob a pair of boots. He was not actually Bob's husband, but -- and Brian didn't really know why; maybe due to the legal reality of the relationship -- Brian was occasionally hit with uncomfortable urges to do husbandy things. Things like buying clothes for Bob if he needed them. Or even spending time with him when they weren't working or eating, though that was more because he was discovering that he kind of liked Bob's company. Somewhat surly and repressed company, granted, but when Bob wasn't feeling uptight about something he could be easy-going and even occasionally a little snarky.

Brian didn't mention any of that, though, because he knew Bob would take it the wrong way.

Well. That, and he also felt a little weird about it. He was pretty sure he shouldn't be having compulsions like that about one of his employees, fake-married or not.

"Sounds like a plan," he said. "And while we're there I can take you across the street and introduce you to my tailor. She's a friend of mine, she gives all of my staff a discount. In case you ever need clothes or anything."

He made a point not to notice Bob's self-consciousness and the narrow look he shot Brian when he mumbled, "Yeah, that would probably be good too."

*

Two days later, Bob got measured and put in orders for new boots, two new pair of pants, and two work shirts. After they left Chantal's Clothier, and without any leading questions from Brian, Bob said, "Do you know someplace I could get work gloves before we head back?"

"Sure, there's a place the next block over," Brian said, and then bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

*

When they got within a couple weeks of Melody's due date, Brian moved into the foaling barn.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but it took a few days for him to adjust to the new sleeping arrangement. He had definitely gotten used to the very comfortable overstuffed mattresses that had come with the house; and since Bob had arrived Brian's evenings had wound down with the help of sizeable portions of brandy, whiskey or wine while he gave Bob time to get to bed and fall asleep alone. Switching to the cot in the groom's quarters, and having to cut back to at most a couple swigs of liquor at bedtime -- just enough to warm him up, but not enough to put him to sleep -- was _hard_.

Luckily Bob took over getting their morning coffee. Brian needed the caffeine to help peel him out of bed in the morning.

"Smith is making blueberry pancakes this morning," Bob said as Brian blinked blearily up at him on the sixth morning.

Brian made irritable grumbly noises and groped at the air until Bob put a hot cup in his hand. Blueberry pancakes would sound great as soon as Brian no longer wanted to kill every perky chirping bird in the rafters.

Bob went out into the barn to give Brian some privacy to huddle over his coffee for a bit. Half the cup in, Brian felt capable of pulling on some pants and getting up.

Duke had followed Bob into the barn, and when Brian joined them Duke parked himself between them. Duke had this thing figured out. Brian and Bob had gotten past their awkward tendency to reach for Duke's head at the same time and ending up with their hands colliding; now Brian went for Duke's neck for a solid rubbing while Bob scratched Duke's ears.

Duke swayed in place, panting and making contented noises. The dog was spoiled, but Brian admired his mercenary attitude.

"No foal yet," Brian said, out of habit.

Bob nodded and said, "She's close though."

Melody knew she was the center of their attention. She hung her head over the half door of her stall and snorted at them. Her belly was enormous, and they could see how the foal had shifted; Brian thought it would only be a matter of days before she gave birth.

Bob handed Brian his empty coffee cup. "I'll get started out here. Meet you inside for breakfast."

"Yeah, I need to clean up," Brian said. "I stink."

Bob snorted and said, "Well, I wasn't going to say it."

Then he looked away, and a little embarrassed. Brian bet he hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"I wouldn't have blamed you if you had," Brian said. He detoured to give each of the horses a nose rub or a chin scratch on his way out, telling Melody, "Don't foal while I'm taking a bath, okay?"

When he got out of the bath, he found Ryan had been up with laundry -- Brian's as well as Bob's -- which was set out on the bed. Despite the fact that Brian and Bob were noticeably different in size, Ross insisted he couldn't tell their clothes apart. He did the laundering, folding and mending, but he left Brian and Bob to do the putting-away.

The morning post had apparently come, because there was also a letter on the bed. Brian read it on his way down to breakfast.

Halfway down the stairs he stopped and reread the letter. When the words didn't do him a favor and change, he sighed.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, and went to the kitchen.

Bob was already there, eating with Spencer and Brendon. Whatever showed on Brian's face when he came in made Bob pause in cutting up his pancake.

"Something wrong?" he said.

"No," Brian said. "Yes. Well, no." He waved the letter at them. "A client I've been trying to get finally wants to meet with me. I'll have to leave this afternoon."

He'd done some business in the past few weeks, but all local -- all things he could take care of during the day and be back by evening. He hadn't had to be away from Melody at night at all.

Bob put down his fork. "How long will you be gone?"

"I have to go up north." Brian scooped a blueberry-freckled pancake onto his plate and got more coffee. "At least three days."

"But what if Melody has the foal in the next three days?" Brendon said.

Brian grimaced. If he could get this client, that would be a huge windfall for him. He'd be that much closer to being able to get out of the brokering business and into the breeding business. So he was trying not to sulk.

"If she does, I'll just...see the foal when I get home."

"That would kind of suck," Spencer said.

"Yeah," Brian muttered, poking dully at his pancake.

"Did you want to send for McCracken's stable master?" Bob said. "See if they can spare him to come stay while you're gone?"

Brian shook his head, and then shrugged. "Well, I can if you think you'll need him. Otherwise I figured I'd just send a note over to let them know I'm leaving. Jepha won't mind being on call in case there's an emergency."

He figured Bert and his people wouldn't mind either way. Before Bob, Bert was always willing to send Jepha to stay when Brian had to travel. Jepha loved the horses, and he was a good guy, even if he did like letting Brian's staff believe he'd gotten all his tattoos during a stint in a Turkish assassin's harem. Ryan and Spencer thought Jepha was sort of alarming but hilarious; Brendon was both vaguely terrified of him and completely stupid in lust with him.

"I doubt you'll need him." Brian aimed a fork full of fantastically good pancake at Brendon. "But you can send Urie for him if you do."

Brendon's eyes got big and a slow flush started at his neck and moved upward.

"Oh sure," Spencer said, elbowing Brendon. "Day or night, right Brendon?"

Bob ignored the by-play, considering Brian with an expression Brian couldn't read. He just nodded slowly, though, picked up his fork, and turned his attention back to his food.

*

**FOUR**

Brian left early that afternoon and spent the next day and a half rattling along in the carriage and reminding himself that he needed clients, and that it wasn't the client's fault that he had the shittiest timing ever. He knew Bob would take good care of the horses, and hopefully he'd make it home in time for the foal, so everything was _okay_.

The client was young money, with no title but plenty of self-importance. The guy was ready to deal, but didn't want to admit it too soon, so Brian had to spend a couple of days shmoozing before he locked it up. Then he had to spend another day going over specs and preferences with the client and his stable master.

He finally headed home on the fifth morning with a sizeable retaining fee in his pocket and a faint but stubborn hope that Melody hadn't foaled while he was gone.

An attempt to ride the last leg of the journey on the box with Worm ended after a couple of miles. Worm stopped the horses and told Brian that if he didn't get his fidgeting, hyper ass back in the carriage Worm would throw him off the damn box and he could walk the rest of the way home.

They rolled up to the house mid-morning. Brendon was in the yard playing with the dogs; the whole little pack of them came jogging up as Brian got out of the carriage.

One look at Brendon's enormous eyes and sympathetic wince made Brian's stomach sink and his heart leap all at the same time.

"When?" he said.

"Last night." All the sympathy left Brendon's expression and he bounced excitedly. "Oh my god, she's beautiful. And Bob let me help, and. Brian, I've never seen anything like that, it was. It was. _Wow_."

Brian stared at him, trying to parse what Brendon was saying. His mouth opened and closed around words that failed to come out.

"'She'?" he said.

Then his feet were running.

He could hear the dogs barking behind him -- Brendon had grabbed their collars when they tried to run after him -- and then he was skidding around the end stall just inside the barn. A couple of stalls down, Melody's door stood open. Bob sat in the doorway against the frame, gazing into the stall, legs stretched out. He heard Brian come in and looked up.

He looked tired and rumpled, but his eyes shone, brilliant bright blue. Even though he held back most of the smile trying to spread across his face, he still managed to just about glow.

It felt like for a moment Brian's heart stopped. It was a bit of a shock, to be so high on excitement that it seemed impossible that things could get any better than that -- and to end up spun that much harder by something so small as a hidden smile.

Bob hauled himself to his feet so that Brian would be able to get into the stall without tripping over him. Giving himself a mental shake, Brian focused on not running the last few feet. It was hard, but he was determined not to make a complete fool of himself.

"Is she," Brian said.

"Yeah," Bob said.

He sounded awestruck. He'd been helping bring foals into the world since he was a kid, and he'd most likely been up all night with this one, and he still sounded awestruck.

_I definitely married the right guy_, Brian thought, a little dizzily. And then he saw his filly.

She was midnight black from tip to tail, just like her mother. The nubs of her horns looked like little silver stars on her forehead.

She'd found her feet, but only just; her spindly legs trembled, feet planted a little askew, as she nursed. Melody nuzzled and licked her, mostly gently but eagerly enough that she came close to knocking her over now and then.

"Oh," Brian said.

He let himself sag against the stall doorframe, and just soaked them in. They were amazing, both of them.

"They were amazing," Bob said, like he was reading Brian's mind. "They were both perfect. Couldn't have asked for an easier birth. And Melody handled everything like a pro. I hardly had to do anything at all. Just sat on the floor with her and let her put her head in my lap when she got tired, and then. She did the rest."

It occurred to Brian, somewhat distantly, that those were the most words Bob had spoken all at once since coming to live with him that weren't spoken in anger or self-defense. He liked it. He wanted Bob to run off at the mouth like that more.

"You saw her born?" Brian said.

Bob nodded. He had his arms hugged around himself. "There was no trouble with her at all," he said again. He shook his head, and when he looked at Melody and the filly, his almost-smile got bigger.

Melody nickered and shifted her weight. The movement took her belly just sideways enough that the foal lost the teat for a moment. Raising her wobbly head, the filly blinked big, barely-focused eyes and made sad little coughing sounds until Melody shifted back in range.

"What are you going to name her?" Brian said.

For a moment there was silence. The smile slid off Bob's face then, replaced with confusion.

"What?"

Brian tilted his head at the foal. "What are going to name her?"

Bob still stared at him. "What?"

After a second of mutual blinking, Brian remembered that Bob had not actually been around forever and didn't know about the naming thing. He shook his head at himself.

"Right, okay, you don't know -- we have a saw-it-first rule," he said. "Like, Brendon found Tulip, so he got to name her. You saw the foal first, so you get to name her."

Bob kept looking at him like he was speaking a foreign language, or had sprouted a couple of extra heads.

"But." Bob looked back at Melody and the foal. "She's your first. You said. I mean, you made it sound like." He scratched the beard scruff on his neck. "Just. Don't you want to name her?"

Bob sounded so confounded, and his face was drawn into the most solemn expression of confusion Brian had ever seen. Brian leaned over and nudged Bob with his elbow.

"Don't break your brain, Bob," he said, grinning. "She's still my foal no matter who names her. So. Pick a name, okay? Anything you like." He paused. "Though if you could pick one that's not stupid, I would appreciate it."

Bob let out a startled laugh at that, though he covered it quickly by scrubbing a hand over his mouth. He was looking at Brian like he thought Brian was crazy again, but this time Brian didn't mind.

"Okay," Bob said. "Okay. I'll think about it."

"Good." Brian shucked his jacket and draped it over the wall. Then he slid down to sit cross-legged just inside the stall to watch his new foal for a while.

*

It took Bob more than a week to name Melody's foal.

Brian woke up one morning and Bob was still in the bedroom. Still on the bed, even -- sitting on the edge of his side of the bed, dressed, and slowly pulling on his boots.

It was a little weird, waking up with someone in the room. Brian had gotten used to going to sleep with someone in his bed, mainly because he came to bed well after dark when Bob was already sound asleep. Sometimes Brian thought that if he tried he could maybe even forget Bob was there.

Not that he had any desire to forget. Still. Bob was easy to sleep with; he barely moved all night.

But waking up with someone in the room was new. The last time Brian had done that was months and months ago, with a girl who served food at an inn he was staying at in the eastern port city. And all the times before _that_ had involved people he'd had sex with and never seen again, too.

So it was a little weird. Not bad. But weird.

Bob got done with his boots and tugged his pant legs down over them. He shifted on the bed then and saw Brian was awake. The way Bob froze, Brian thought he was going to get up and flee. He didn't, though.

Clearing his throat, Bob instead turned so that he could see Brian better. He rubbed his palms on his thighs and glanced around the room once, before saying, "So. Good morning."

His awkwardness felt strangely...normal. Brian knew that someday there would be no new experiences left for Bob to run up against, no more reasons for him to be awkward around Brian. That day was still a ways in the future though.

Yawning around a short laugh, Brian rubbed his eyes. His hair felt tangled on one side; he scratched sleepily at it as he squinted past Bob to where the sunrise turned the sky pink outside the windows.

"So it is," he said. He looked at Bob again. "Did I wake up early, or are you getting started late?"

"Um. Little of both?" Bob half-shrugged. "I took my time this morning. I was hoping you'd wake up."

Shoving himself up until he was propped against the headboard, Brian willed the sleep haze out of his head. "Something wrong?"

"No. No, I just," Bob said. "I just was thinking. You're sure you don't want to name the filly yourself?"

Brian groaned tiredly and dragged both hands down his face. Bob had asked that at _least_ once a day all week. "Bob," he said, as expressively as he could manage.

"Okay, right, I know. Sorry." Bob took a deep breath, held it, and then said in a rush, "What do you think about Dixie?"

The way Bob sat there picking at a bit of down poking out of the duvet, trying not to look like it mattered if Brian shot down his suggestion made Brian's stomach lurch in a weird, fluttery way. At that moment, Brian was pretty sure he'd have okay'd any name Bob had come up with.

But Bob had actually chosen something really nice.

"Dixie," Brian repeated. "Yeah. I like it."

"Yeah?" Bob glanced up at him, and for the second time in less than so many weeks Brian was struck by how blue his eyes were.

"Yeah." Brian smiled. "I'll put it in the books when I go downstairs, and send a note to Greta so she can finish the pedigree papers."

Bob nodded, stood up, and nodded again. "Okay. Thanks. I mean, I'm glad you like it."

He took a few hesitant steps toward the door, but stopped again at the end of the bed. He half turned, his hand resting on the bedpost.

"I had a dog," he said. "Her name was Dixie. I had her when my mother was still alive. She was ours." His fingers drummed on the bed knob, his eyes fixed on the floor. "She died not long after my mother did. Hunting accident --" He glanced at Brian; the words were almost a question, like maybe he didn't really believe what he was saying. Then he shrugged. "She was just a mutt. Wasn't much of a hunting dog. Lord Ellis said she got in the way of a shot."

He broke off abruptly. Brian though Bob was going to say more, but when the silence started to draw out realized he wasn't.

"It's a nice name," Brian said softly. "I really do like it."

That got him a sideways, examining glance.

"Okay." Bob let go of the bedpost and switched to drumming against the side of his leg. "Good." Backing toward the door he said, "So I'll see you downstairs in a bit," and then he turned and ducked out of the room.

When he was gone, Brian covered his face with his hands again, pressing his fingertips against his eyes until he saw stars. _A mutt. In Ellis's kennel full of purebreds._ He tried not to think about what had probably happened to that dog.

He also tried not to think about the way he'd had to clench his hands in the bedcovers to keep from reaching out when Bob had talked about that dog. Not because he'd thought Bob wanted anything like that; exactly the opposite, most likely. It would have been absolutely the wrong thing to do.

Not to mention, Brian really was not that guy -- he was not the guy anybody came to for a pat on the back, or a hug or any crap like that. So he had no idea where the urge came from in the first place.

"It's that whole thing where I'm not fit for any kind of company before coffee," he told the room. "That's all it is."

He mostly believed it.

*

By the end of the summer, Dixie was doing beautifully. Growing well, perfectly healthy; still sticking close to Melody but dashing around in Melody's orbit in a way that indicated she'd be as much of an impatient speed freak as her mother when she got older. She was doing so well that Brian was able to talk Bob into taking a short trip with him.

It would be just a day trip, with them leaving early in the morning and getting home late that same night. Even though Jepha agreed to come spend the day and keep an eye on things, it still took some cajoling. But Bob finally broke down and consented to go.

"So, where are we going?" Bob said.

They had been on the road for a couple of hours, and Bob had tried that a couple of times before -- slipping the question into a conversation, probably trying to catch Brian off guard.

Brian just smiled, maddeningly he hoped. "You'll see."

A little twist of Bob's mouth was all the disgruntlement he showed. He didn't even bother opening his eyes to glare at Brian, though Brian wagered that could just as likely be due to not wanting to move any more than he had to in the stuffy carriage.

Brian, at least, felt too hot to move. The thing Brian hated most about traveling during the summer months was the sweltering air inside the carriages. Even with the windows removed he felt like he was going to melt.

Bob didn't appear to be doing much better, but he seemed less bothered by it. He slouched in one corner with his leg stretched out across the seat, jacket open but still on. He'd been dozing for the past hour.

Brian did not know how Bob did that -- wore jackets over long sleeve shirts in this heat. Brian had to either ditch his jacket or wear one of the shirts he'd had Ryan take the sleeves off of. Or both.

"You are not human," he said conversationally. "You are a demon. From Hell. Because only one of Satan's minions could be comfortable enough to nap in this damned heat."

Bob cracked an eye open. "It's not that bad." He ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, and blinked around the carriage. "Maybe we could open a door to get more air in."

They already had the windows open, and Bob had let Brian sit at the back of the carriage to catch as much of the breeze as possible. Opening a door was tempting, but Worm did not like the doors on his carriage hanging open and banging around. Brian or Bob would have to hold it open, which would be a pain.

"Nah," Brian said, sighing. "We should be pretty close to where we're going, anyway."

Bob swung his leg off the seat and sat up, leaning forward to peer out the window. His annoyance took on a sudden apprehensive cast.

"We're not going shopping, are we?" he said.

Brian almost snorted at how apprehensive Bob sounded.

"No, we're not birthday shopping this time." Brian had dragged Bob into town with him the previous month to help find a birthday gift for Brendon. It had not gone well. "But incidentally, Brendon follows you around talking at you all the time. I thought you'd have at least half a clue what he might like." Brian made a face. "How the hell was I supposed to know you'd be completely useless?"

Bob shrugged. "I told you that I don't actually listen to him."

The carriage slowed and hitched around a turn. Brian glanced out the window.

"Well, you'll find out where we're going in about a minute," he said. "We're here."

Bob went back to looking out the window. "Where is here?"

They passed the narrow end of a pasture; a small herd of horses was visible farther out.

"Hopeful Farm," Brian said. "I've known the owners for years. Melody came from their stock, and I buy and sell for them. Right now I'm working on a deal to get them a couple Thoroughbreds from another client in exchange for one of their Arabians."

Bob raised his eyebrows. "You brought me with you on a sale?"

"Yes and no." As the carriage slowed, Brian grabbed his coat and shrugged it on. "Maybe."

He just grinned at Bob's disinterested pretense. He could tell Bob was curious.

They dismounted from the carriage in a courtyard between two rows of stables. Hopeful Farm was a big operation, and there was plenty of activity -- horses being walked, bathed, saddled up and ridden. When they got out a stout, grizzled man broke away from a pair of apprentices working on shoeing a patient old gelding and came over to greet them.

"Henry," Brian said, and grasped the hand that was offered to him.

"Schechter," Henry said. Gruff was his default tone of voice, but he smiled broadly at them. "You're late."

Henry had accused Brian of being late every time he saw him for the past ten years. Brian pulled out his pocket watch without even thinking about it. "I said mid-morning. It's ten A.M."

"I been up since four," Henry said. "Far as I'm concerned it's lunchtime." He turned to Bob. "Schechter ever tell you how he showed up here looking for a job? He was a filthy little shit with forged early independence papers, and he walked into my barn at five in the evening and told me to hire him. Five in the evening -- like there was any time left in the day to even see what he could do." Henry shot Brian a hard look, ruined by the crinkle around his eyes. "Been late for everything important ever since."

Brian cringed and ran a hand through his hair. "You never told me you knew my papers were forged."

Henry leaned toward Bob. "He didn't even bother trying to write his parents' signatures in different hands. Not the sharpest kid I ever met."

"Oh, _thanks_." Brian planted his hands on his hips. "I'm so glad I brought Bob here to meet you. I have to remember to bring all of my friends to visit so you can tell them what an idiot I am."

Bob was chewing on his lip the way he did when he was having a hell of a time not laughing. Brian tried to glare at him, to absolutely no effect.

"Nah, you turned out okay," Henry said. "I got a knack for long shots. The ones I take always make me proud."

The fondness in his eyes made Brian's face feel a little hot. He hoped to god he wasn't blushing. He didn't really need the extra embarrassment at the moment.

"_Anyway_," he said. He gestured at Bob. "Henry, this is Bob Bryar, who I told you about." To Bob he said, "And this senile old bastard is Henry Dailey, head trainer here."

Henry ignored the latter half of the introduction and shook Bob's hand. "Brian's told me plenty about you. Says you're good with troublesome horses."

Bob slid Brian a questioning glance. "I suppose so. My stepfather prefers northern breeds for his driving horses, so I've trained up plenty of those."

Henry nodded. "That's a start."

He started off through the busy courtyard, heading toward a small barn with its own paddock separate from the main pasture. Brian followed and motioned Bob to come with.

"This is a northern breed, but not a carriage horse," Henry was saying. "We got pedigree on him, but can't get any answers about his care before we came across him. All we know is that he's untrained, probably neglected." Henry pushed the barn door open so they could cross through to the paddock. He added darkly, "Got a few suspicious scars, though, and an equally suspicious dislike of whips."

Brian had already seen the horse the week previous, when he'd first come up to discuss the Thoroughbred-Arabian deal. So this time instead of looking at the horse, he watched Bob.

Bob stepped into the short run and up to the gate, moving slowly and quietly. He whistled low under his breath.

"How old is he?" he asked softly.

"Just past two," Henry said.

"He's gorgeous," Bob said. "And, damn. _Huge_."

He kept a steady expression, but his eyes took on a shine that reminded Brian of the way Bob looked at Dixie -- a little awe, some critical appreciation, and a lot of love at first sight.

It was exactly the reaction Brian had hoped for.

From the opposite end of the paddock the unicorn stood watching them. He held his head high, cocked to keep a clear eye on them, with his neck arched gracefully. From his profile, it was easy to see the lingering gangliness that indicated he still had growing to do, but despite that he was already as tall as an average-sized horse. His hooves, fringed with long, feathery hairs, were already twice the size of a more typical breed.

His coat was a rich chestnut, except for the white blaze covering the straight line of his face from forelock to nose, and the long white stockings on his legs. Spiraling out to a fine point, his horn was a straight shot of gleaming ivory.

"Full-blood uni-horn Clydesdale," Brian said. "We're thinking he'll hit at least 18 hands when he's full grown."

The horse reacted to his voice, ears flicking forward, stance shifting to even sharper attention. Even standing still his contained energy was palpable.

"And he's untrained?" Bob said. "Completely?"

Henry leaned on the gate beside Bob. "He'll put up with some careful handling, enough that we can keep him clean and shod. We can get a halter on him, but he won't be cross-tied and leading him can be a chore if you don't keep an eye on how you swish the rope. No saddle training yet, though, and he'll kick the shit out of a cart if you try to bring one up behind him."

"Henry and Alec were told he's dangerous," Brian said. "But since none of their crew is stupid, impatient or mean they've decided he's mostly just skittish and stubborn."

Bob shifted, turning toward Henry and Brian in a way that would let the horse think he was no longer being watched without Bob actually losing track of him.

"He's gorgeous," Bob said again. "But why am I here? I'm sure you have plenty of experience dealing with stubborn horses."

"You're here because I want to know if you think you could train him," Brian said. "Because if you can, I want to buy him."

That got Bob's full attention. "You thinking about cross-breeding Clydes?"

Brian shrugged. "A horse like this doesn't fall into a person's lap too often, not for the price Alec's willing to take for him."

It wasn't an answer, and he could tell Bob caught the evasion. When Brian didn't elaborate, though, Bob didn't pursue it.

Unfortunately, Bob had gotten a bit more comfortable over the months about speaking up when he had questions. Brian figured the odds were pretty good Bob would bring this up again later.

Looking back at the Clyde, Bob said, "I'll have to see him handled. See for myself how he acts with people and around other horses. And spend a little time out there with him myself."

Henry shoved off the gate. "I'll send the girl who's been working with him the most to meet you here."

As Henry moved away, Brian raised his eyebrows at Bob in an unspoken question.

Bob gave him a brief nod, and then turned away.

Not quite quickly enough; Brian still caught the smile.

*

They didn't start home until late, what with having to draw up a preliminary sale contract on the horse and make arrangements for pick up and transport. They'd have to wait a week or so before taking possession, because Greta and Alec's attorney still had to go over and finalize the contract, and payment had to be delivered. Brian still wanted to get as much taken care of before they left, though.

Bob spent most of the journey home lost in thought. Every now and then he'd say something out of the blue about what he thought would be best for the Clyde in terms of initial boarding arrangement, which of the horses he thought the Clyde might get along with best, what kind of pace he thought they should take in terms of training.

As the carriage passed between the stone pillars marking the boundary of Brian's property and headed into the night-dark forest Brian finally said, "Bob. Whatever you think is best, just go with it. That's why I brought you, so you could figure all that stuff out for us."

Brian couldn't see the look Bob gave him, but he felt it. For a moment they rode in silence and darkness. Almost immediately, gradually, the darkness took on a faint glow. It grew in brightness until it reached a soft, yellow-white shimmer that carved a patch of light out of the pitch black of the forest.

There was a hum, too, hardly more than a rising and falling whisper.

"What is that?" Bob said, leaning forward to look out the carriage window.

The carriage slowly came abreast of the tall post set just off the lane. The top of it swarmed with night fairies -- so many of them that they gave off more light than a torch or lantern would have.

"Fairy lights," Brian said. "The lane is pitch dark at night, and I'm coming and going enough at late hours that I wanted to light it up somehow. I don't trust untended fire, even closed in lanterns." He shifted over so that he could peer up at the flurry of tiny winged creatures zipping in and out of the forest, to and from the feeder at the top of the post. "Victoria came up with these. She comes through whenever I'm away and douses the feeders with the clover nectar the fairies like, so if I end up arriving home at night my way will be lit."

The glow from the fairy light faded as they moved away, but well before they reached the edge of it the glow from the next fairy light took up the slack.

"Wow," Bob said. "I've never seen so many fairies all in one place."

Brian smiled. "Well, hobs and basilisks aren't the only things this property is infested with. But these guys come in handy."

They watched a few more posts pass by. As they came up to one midway through the forest, Bob broke the silence.

"You're not planning to breed Clydes," he said finally.

"Well," Brian said. "Draft horses aren't really the market I'm in. Cross-breeding is always a possibility, somewhere down the line..."

"Somewhere down the line," Bob repeated. "But not any time in the near future. So why spend your money on that one? You could have saved it to put toward something else."

Brian found himself drumming his fingers on his seat. "I just...saw him, and I wanted him."

That got him dubious silence. He realized that Bob had waited to ask the question at a moment when they'd have enough light from the fairy post to see each other clearly. The half truth had probably been obvious on his face. _And Ellis thought this kid was stupid. For crying out loud._

"I saw him, and I wanted him," Brian said again. Then added, "For you."

The next silence dragged on awkwardly as the carriage pulled away from the fairy light and darkened.

"For me," Bob said.

"...yes?" Brian said. Then he wanted to kick himself for sounding so uncertain. It made him sound like he had something to feel guilty or weird about. "Not because of -- it wasn't anything --"

Brian floundered. He'd hoped to avoid this conversation, because he wasn't sure he could put into words why he'd done it. He'd seen the unicorn, found out about its history from Henry and...for some reason he'd thought of Bob. Thought that if there was a horse out there in the world that was right for Bob, this one was it. Somehow. For reasons Brian couldn't put a finger on.

"I got Smith that new stove he needed last winter," Brian said. "And when Brendon found Tulip as a puppy I let him bring her home. So. It's kind of like that."

He grimaced and thought about banging his head on the side of the carriage. That sounded lame even to him.

"A stove and a puppy aren't a _pure-bred Clyde_," Bob said incredulously. "Brian, I can't afford this horse, even as cheap as you got him. I haven't saved up nearly enough to pay you back."

"You don't have to pay me back." Brian gritted his teeth; he hated having to explain things like this. Things that made people think he was acting weird. Even though he knew he _was_ acting weird. "Look. I see how you are with my horses, and you've practically renovated the entire main barn all by yourself, and I just think -- you should have one. A horse. Of your own."

"I didn't work on the barn to get something out of you," Bob said quietly. "You didn't ask me to do it, so you don't have to feel obligated to give me anything."

"I know that, and that's not what I'm saying." Brian clenched his hands against his thighs. He didn't know who he wanted to strangle more -- himself for sounding like a fool, or Bob for being so _difficult_ about this. "And it's not a gift, it's...okay, it's sort of a gift. Because you damn well better not try to pay me back."

They were back in a pool of fairy light, and he could see the closed-down set to Bob's expression. Brian hadn't seen that look in months, not since Bob had settled in and started to feel at home in Brian's house.

"Dammit," Brian said helplessly. "Bob, who else do I have in my life who I could do something like this for? I mean --" because that didn't sound right, and he saw Bob's expression twitch to a frown "-- this has nothing to do with our...our whatever. Marriage. That isn't even real, remember? Just, I have friends who love their horses, okay. But I've never gotten to see any of them look at my filly the way you did. And I don't know if any of them would look at that Clyde and see what I saw, but I know you did, I could tell by the way you looked at him."

He was incredibly glad they were going through a dark patch at that moment, because while he was talking some things clicked into place. For a moment the breath tightened like a fist in his chest; he knew what he was thinking would have been all over his face.

He forced himself to breathe in the silence, and hoped Bob wouldn't make him say more.

"Okay," Bob said finally, quietly. "I think I get it."

"Yeah?" Brian said.

He could see Bob nod. "Yeah. I think so."

Brian hesitated a moment longer. "So. It's okay? We're okay?"

Then there was enough light to make Bob's expression. It was mostly unreadable, and still stiff. But he also smiled, just a little, when he said, "Yeah. We're good."

Brian let out a breath. "Okay. Good."

He sat back in his seat and looked out the window at the passing forest. His hands, ridiculously, were trembling, so he linked them together in his lap and willed them to be still. In his study in the house was a new bottle of brandy, and thank god, because he needed it. He needed it to calm his nerves, and he needed it to take the edge off his massive, spectacular stupidity.

Because like the idiot he very clearly was, he had started falling in love with the guy he'd married.

*****

Bob felt a little weird about that horse for a while.

As far as he was concerned, he hadn't paid for it, so he hadn't earned it, and therefore he wasn't really sure why he was getting it. On one hand he believed Brian when Brian said that it had to do with the way they both feel about the horses. Bob had seen that too -- seen that Brian got horses the way Bob did, loved them without strings attached like Bob did.

On the other hand, a horse was a damned expensive gift.

Bob had received a few gifts in the past that were more expensive than he was used to. Before his mother died he got a couple of birthday gifts from his stepfather once; and the Baron had given Bob a few extravagant items of clothing. None of those things were nearly as costly as the Clydesdale, though, and weren't even close to being something Bob wanted as much as he wanted his own horse. But both his stepfather and the Baron still had expected something in return beyond just Bob's gratitude.

So on one hand he believed that Brian just wanted to give him that horse, but he also thought there must be something he was expected to do in return.

He just didn't know what.

Brian wasn't like Bob's stepfather, who wanted people to fawn over him and gush with gratitude for every little thing he did for them. And Brian honestly didn't seem to want the same things from Bob as the Baron had. So Bob was at a loss as to how to react and what to do in return for the Clydesdale.

The one thing he could think to do was speed up the last phase of renovations to the main barn. Bob had worked steadily on the barn over the past couple of months, but only in his spare time, so progress was slow. He was close to finished, though. The last few stalls on the west end had needed to be rebuilt from scratch due to wood rot; he had a couple more stall walls and door frames to put up, and doors to hang. Then the noisy, messy parts of the renovation would be done and they'd be able to move Brian's horses in.

It generally took a few weeks for the attorneys to finalize the sale and transfer of a new horse, so Bob decided to put in some extra hours and try to get the barn finished before the Clyde arrived.

*

Jon turned up with the papers from Greta the day Bob hung the last door. In two days the Clydesdale would be delivered, and there would be a stall in the main barn waiting for him.

The problem then was how to tell Brian the barn was ready. Bob thought it was probably a weird thing to be nervous about. Still, he spent every second of his spare time that afternoon and evening going over everything he'd done, and then over every inch of the place just in general, trying to find where he might have forgotten to do something, or might have messed something up.

Brian had just told him to do what he thought needed to be done, fix the place up however he thought was best, but Bob figured Brian probably had certain expectations. Since he hadn't spelled them out, Bob had no way of knowing what they were, though. The moon had been up for a while and Bob's lantern was running low by the time he decided he could either drive himself crazy second-guessing everything he'd done all night, or he could get a grip, get some sleep, and just tell Brian about it in the morning.

The house was quiet when he made his way through the servant passage to the main hall. Bob guessed the rest of the staff were on the third floor. Besides Jon, Ryan's girlfriend was over with a few of her friends; and someone from town who Brendon had been seeing had stopped by earlier and, as far as Bob knew, hadn't left. Shane's horse had still been in the barn when Bob bedded down the horses, anyway.

They were probably playing music, drinking, smoking, and whatever else it was they did, but neither Bob nor Brian would hear a peep from them all night. So long as Ryan and the house were getting along, the house would mute the noise and keep them from having the party shut down early, when Brian went to bed.

There was light coming from beneath Brian's study door. Bob paused outside it, debating whether to go in right then and tell Brian about the barn and get it over with. He decided against it. He'd rather be able to show Brian around in the daylight.

As he started climbing the stairs, he heard a door creak open upstairs, but he didn't think anything of it. His mind was already on bed; most every day he was thoroughly worn out by the end of the day, but the late nights working on the barn were leaving him more tired and achy than usual. He couldn't wait to curl up on the thick, perfect bed.

The house had other ideas, though. He wasn't paying attention to the ground he covered as he went up the stairs, so he didn't realize he'd gone past the second floor until he nearly whacked his head on the ceiling.

He flung a hand out to grab the banister as he jerked back a step and caught himself before he could topple down the steps.

"What the hell?" He turned to look back the way he'd come. Where the stairs should have leveled out to a landing and opened to the hallway down to the bedrooms, there was nothing. No landing, and no opening in the wall to the hallway.

He stood for a moment, taken aback. This was the first time since he'd moved in that the house had given him any problems. Anything it did that was out of the ordinary was usually helpful -- filling his wash basin or the bathtub for him, opening windows to let in a breeze, rearranging stairways and hallways for a week after he'd turned his ankle so that he didn't have to go as far to get between the bedroom, kitchen and outdoors.

He couldn't think of anything he'd done to upset it, either. Though the habit of being careful not to anger _the house_ was a new one for him, so he could have done something without realizing it.

"Are you angry with me?" he whispered, after a brief hesitation. He still felt a little weird talking to the house.

The soft creak of a door sounded again, this time almost right on top of him. He turned in time to see a section of the ceiling fold open, like a double shutter, where the stairs dead-ended. Raising his lantern, he discovered that the stairs were no longer a dead end: they continued through the ceiling, taking a hard right and disappearing into the darkness.

He glanced back down the stairs. The landing and second floor hallway were back.

"Not locking me out," he said. "Just trying to get my attention. Got it."

He still really wanted his bed, but he figured he ought to see whatever it was that the house wanted to show him. No reason to make an enemy of it now by blowing it off.

The secret stairs above the ceiling traveled steeply up a narrow passage through an outer third floor wall. Eventually they came to another door. Pushing it open and stepping through, Bob found himself in a short, narrow hallway full of windows.

Along the right side of the hallway, floor to ceiling windows spaced between fluted columns looked out across the stables and pastures. The left side of the hallway slanted, following the line of the steeply pitched roof.

He could still smell new wood and paint, and a winding staircase at the other end of the hallway went up into a tower room, which meant this was Ryan's latest project. Though it would probably be more appropriate to say that it was a joint project between Ryan and the house. Bob had never once seen Ryan or anyone else setting the stonework or doing any of the other outer construction as the tower went up.

He'd asked about it, and Ryan said he never had a chance to help with that sort of thing. Apparently the house was in charge of the actual building (somehow; Ryan couldn't explain that one), while Ryan was in charge of things like painting and curtains -- whatever wasn't nailed down and wasn't bare wood or stone. Ryan said that once he and the house agreed on a new room or structure, the house took over getting it built.

"How exactly do you agree on something with the house?" Bob asked.

"Dreams," Ryan said. "I dream about the house, and the house dreams back at me."

He'd said it in that flat, dry tone he always used and had looked Bob straight in the eye in that defensive way he had that seemed to dare people to call bullshit on him.

Bob didn't. Honestly, blaming dreams would explain a lot. The mess of secret passageways, for example, not to mention the set of empty rooms on the south wing of the second floor that had at some point transformed into an indoor patio, complete with paving stones, a fountain, a vine-covered pergola, flowers, potted fruit trees, and live birds.

At any rate, this new hallway and tower were no doubt why Ryan and his girlfriend had been wandering the house lately with armfuls of cloth, and wearing paint-spattered clothes. Their efforts had definitely been worth it. Bob came out into the small tower room, and felt like he had walked out into the sky.

The floor was dark -- lowering his lantern showed wood painted dark blue. The windows started a foot above the floor; the wall beneath the windows was the same color as the floor, making the windows look like they floated above darkness.

Just like in the hallway, the walls were almost entirely windows. The ceiling appeared arched, but Bob couldn't tell for certain. Wide swaths of cloth, stretching from the tops of the windows up to the center of the ceiling, obscured the ceiling.

Cords hung down alongside the windows; Bob gave one an experimental pull.

A section of cloth slid down, bunching neatly at the top of the window. It exposed a section of ceiling made of huge panes of glass that let in the moonlight and opened up the room to a field of stars.

A soft shuffle of footsteps on the stairs preceded a low whistle. Bob turned to see Brian step into the room.

"Wow," Brian said quietly. He caught Bob's surprised look. Holding up a bottle of Port, he said, "I went into the parlor to get a new bottle. Saw the door open at the top of the stairs." He went back to gazing appreciatively around the room. "Damn. Is this what Ross and Berg have been doing all month?"

"I guess so." Bob moved around the room, lowering all of the curtains until the room was surrounded by night sky. "They must have just finished."

"How did you find it?"

"House showed me," Bob said. "Wouldn't let me go to bed until I came up to see it."

Brian laughed, short and soft. Then he said, "Hey, look at this."

There were huge floor cushions in the middle of the room; they were the only furniture.

"I didn't bring any glasses." Brian kicked the floor cushions out of their stacks and stretched out on a couple of them. He held up the Port. "But we could still share."

A twinge of apprehension shivered through Bob. For no real reason -- Brian's offer had not been a politely phrased directive, and Bob knew it wouldn't even faze Brian if he turned him down. And they'd passed the wine around with the household at dinner plenty of times without anything unpleasant happening.

But Bob had some fuzzy memories of times in the Baron's house, of gatherings that got a little weird after he got too drunk to do anything about it; and a few very clear recollections of waking up in the morning with no actual memory of what had happened the night before, but enough sick feeling and discomfort that he could make some guesses. Those things always started with someone offering him a drink or asking him to share a bottle of something with them.

_God dammit._ Bob dragged a hand down his face, and gave himself a mental shake. _Don't think about that. This isn't the Baron's house. Stop being such a coward about everything._

Blowing out a breath, he set his lantern on the floor and lowered himself to sit on a cushion beside Brian.

"Sure," he said. "Thanks."

Brian finished a swig and handed the bottle over. Bob took a mouthful, swallowing slowly. It was good Port, bottle-aged and smooth. Bob thought Brian must have gotten it from one of his clients. Brian seemed perfectly happy drinking cheap whiskey and mid-range wines and liquors, so Bob didn't think he'd care to spend the kind of money Port of this quality cost.

It was perfect for sipping, which was what Bob did. He didn't have to worry about what could happen in this house if he got drunk, but that didn't mean he wanted to risk falling down the stairs on his way to bed later. Particularly since he guessed he'd probably have to make sure Brian didn't fall down the stairs. Brian did not appreciate a good Port; he drank it a lot faster than Bob did.

It was nice, though. They sat side by side on the floor, sharing the bottle and watching the stars. After they'd been there a while, when Brian made a comment about how the room would get stuffy in the summer heat, the windows swung open. The soft night breeze washed over them, a cool, soothing counterpoint to the warmth Bob could feel the Port bringing to his cheeks.

Brian had started rambling about his plans for his farm. It was mostly stuff Bob had heard before. Brian talked about his horses and his dreams a lot. Not that Bob minded; anything to do with horses was Bob's favorite topic. Plus, unless things went bad between the two of them in the near future, Bob would be involved in making those dreams happen.

He tried not to think too much about that, because it tended to make his stomach twist and flip and make him feel weird. Growing up he'd thought he'd probably work in his stepfather's stables forever, and he'd been happy with that. This thing with Brian, though -- the way Brian talked, especially when he was buzzed, he made it sound like the stables and horses would be as much Bob's as his own.

That was a hell of a lot more than Bob had expected for himself, and it didn't seem right. He knew if he thought about it too much he'd start getting attached to the idea, and then it might turn out he'd misunderstood. So Bob tried not to think too much about it.

He mostly succeeded.

"Oh," Brian said suddenly, interrupting something he'd been saying about breeding. "Oh, oh, I almost forgot. Jon brought the papers on your horse."

Bob made an affirmative noise, momentarily distracted by the way Brian had said 'your horse.' That didn't seem right either, but hell if he could help the little thrill he got every time Brian said it anyway. Then cleared his throat and clarified, "I know. We talked about it at dinner."

"No, yeah, I know, that's not what I meant." Brian paused, turned his head to take another drink of the Port. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shifted over onto his side so he could go up on an elbow. He smirked, very pleased with himself, and said, "What I meant was, Jon brought the papers, and they have your horse's name officially on them."

For a moment Bob just blinked at him. He didn't know the horse had a name. It hadn't come with one. Brian had tried to insist that Bob name it, since it was his first horse, but Bob had refused. He wasn't going to break the house naming rule, not after Brian had let Bob name his filly.

"Oh," he said. His Port-fogged brain finally caught up with the conversation. "You picked a name?"

"I did."

Bob waited. Brian smirked. Bob fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"And?" he said finally.

"And," Brian said drawing it out. "Clyde."

Bob waited again. But when Brian didn't continue, realization dawned.

"Clyde?" Bob said. "You named him Clyde?"

Brian's smirk broke into a grin and he nodded.

Bob stared at him. "Seriously? Clyde? You named a Clydesdale _Clyde_?"

"Yes," Brian said. He sounded _fantastically_ pleased with himself now. "I did."

"How many Clydesdales do you suppose there are out there named 'Clyde'?" Bob said. "Seeing as it's possibly the most obvious name _in the world_."

He bit his tongue after that last comment; he thought he must be a little more buzzed than he'd intended to get, if he was being that sarcastic out loud.

But Brian just smiled. "It's simple. Sturdy. Boring."

Bob stared at him some more, and discovered he had no control over his mouth whatsoever at the moment. "Boring? You gave my horse a boring name on purpose? What the hell."

Brian's eyebrows shot up and then his smile softened.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, you did it."

"I did not," Bob said. Like hell Brian was going to pin this on him. "_You_ picked the name. You just said so."

Shaking his head, Brian nudged Bob with the hand holding the bottle of Port. "No, not that. You called him your horse."

That caught Bob off guard. After a blank moment, he grabbed the bottle from Brian, thinking he'd take a drink to cover up the way he had absolutely no idea what to say. Then he remembered he was feeling too buzzed already and handed the bottle back instead. Brian snorted, shooting a look that clearly said he thought Bob was weird, as he took the bottle.

"Anyway. Your horse is already unique enough," Brian said, perfectly seriously. "By which I mean he is a huge pain in the ass. I didn't want to encourage him by giving him an exciting and interesting name."

For a moment Bob tried to come up with something to say to that, too. He was wordless again. Brian must have been taking lessons from Brendon, because he'd clearly mastered the art of ending a discussion by saying something so off topic or devoid of logic that there really wasn't anywhere to go with it.

Bob just shook his head, glad it was too dark for Brian to see how red his face had gotten. "Fine. I didn't give your filly a stupid name, but if you want to give my horse a stupid name go right ahead."

He stuttered over the word 'my', and it made Brian's expression go all strangely soft again even as he laughed.

Brian flopped onto his back, sighing deeply. "You just wait. You will see how perfect that name is for him. You'll love it."

*

Bob's decision not to drink too much turned out to be a good one, since he had to nearly carry Brian down to the bedroom. He thought about letting Brian sleep where he was, in the tower, but while the floor cushions were decent for lounging on Bob suspected they'd kill to sleep on.

When he shoved the covers down and plopped Brian on his side of the bed, Brian didn't bother getting undressed. He rolled over, almost to the middle of the bed, pulled the covers over himself and fell asleep.

Bob changed into his nightshirt and crawled in on his own side. This was different. He'd fallen asleep alone every night since he'd moved in. The bed sank in the middle toward Brian, and even trying to curl up close to the edge Bob could still feel Brian's warmth against his back.

Maybe it should have felt uncomfortable, or wrong. Bob waited for it to feel wrong. He waited for the anxious feeling to spark in his chest as he shifted around to get comfortable, that he should have felt at the possibility of waking Brian up.

None of that happened, though. All he felt was sleepy. He found himself relaxing, getting heavy and warm, and drifting off to the quiet, even rhythm of Brian's breathing.

*

**FIVE**

The day before Hopeful Farm delivered Clyde, Bob and Brian walked through the finished main barn.

Brian had watched the progress of the repairs, so there was nothing really new to show him. He was still an appreciative audience, though.

"I can't believe you got it done so quickly," Brian said. He turned and walked backwards a few paces, head tilted back to see the morning light gleaming through the windows below the eaves. "Didn't you say it would be a couple more weeks?"

Bob shrugged. "I really didn't have much left to do. A couple extra hours a night took care of it."

Brian raised an eyebrow and stifled a smile as he turned forward again. "A couple extra hours? You were coming in pretty late every night for the last week. A few times I almost made it to bed before you. And you know how late I stay up."

Bob shrugged again. He'd lost track of the hour a few times, and been surprised to find Brian still up when he finally came in. He'd actually found Brian asleep at his desk once; when Bob shook him awake he'd muttered some half-coherent explanation about having work to do. All of his work papers had been stacked neatly aside, notes in Brian's tidy handwriting clipped to them -- everything complete.

Bob hadn't said anything about it. He didn't know why Brian went out of his way to stay downstairs until Bob was asleep, but Bob wasn't going to ask.

Detouring to walk alongside the row of stalls on his right, Brian let his fingertips trail over the shiny tiles that striped the walls and doors with mosaic.

"This place is ridiculous, isn't it?" Brian grinned at Bob. "Mosaic, and the wood inlays, and the wrought iron. Like a barn needs that stuff. I swear the only thing missing is stained glass. Maybe a mural."

Bob had to laugh. "Funny you should say that."

He touched Brian's arm to stop him, and shifted him back against the wall so that they could see up into the hay loft. It wasn't light enough yet for a good view, but the colors and shapes covering the walls were unmistakable.

"What is that?" Brian said.

"It starts out as a pretty landscape, with a pasture and horses," Bob said, pointing to the far left of the mural. "But it sort of gradually turns into something with a bunch of weird things. Crows and dead trees and swirly things. And then there are some living-dead unicorns and lightning storms and something that looks like an underwater scene. And then it ends with rainbows, roses and some squiggly things that Z said represent 'the spirits of mares and foals.'"

They squinted up at the mural in silence for a few moments.

"Why?" Brian said finally.

"I have no idea," Bob said.

He chewed on his lip to hold back a grin. Z had worked on the mural while Ryan helped Bob with some of the construction. Every now and then she'd get bored with whatever she was painting and shout to Ryan to give her some ideas. Ryan would just yell back whatever the hell came to mind. Bob shouted some things too, just as a joke, but Z had used a couple. The zombie unicorns and the rainbows were his fault.

Brian broke into a grin. "I like it."

"Yeah?" Bob said.

Moving back out into the middle of the aisle so he could look down the length of the barn, Brian propped his hands on his hips and looked around with a distinctly satisfied air.

"Yeah," he said. "The whole thing. It's." He broke off, shaking his head. He scratched his fingers through his hair and seemed to be searching for words. Finally he sighed. "This barn -- I mean, the house was bizarre and I swear to god it tried to kill me when I came to view it. But I didn't buy this place for the house. I bought it for this barn. And look at it."

He spread his hands.

"It looks like a real barn. The kind that's going to be filled with horses some day. You know?"

Bob leveled a blank look at him. "Well. That would probably be because it is a real barn. That's meant to board horses, even."

Brian scowled at him. "You know what I mean."

Bob hid a smile and looked away. He did know. There was something about the barn, now that it was all fixed up. Bob could see in his head how it was going to look some day, alive with activity, busy with horses, with Brian at wits end managing it all -- and thrilled with it, because Brian seemed to like nothing better than to be run ragged taking care of his horses.

And if he let himself think it, Bob could see himself in the middle of it, too.

"I know." He tried to smile back at Brian, but ended up ducking his head and talking to his feet. It was stupid, but he couldn't help it. "I'm glad you like it."

Brian side-stepped to nudge Bob in the side with his elbow. "I don't like it, I love it." When Bob glanced up at him, he had that soft, unreadable expression on again, like he'd had the night they spent drinking in the tower, when they had talked about Clyde. "Thanks."

Pulling his own expression into something he hoped came across as nonchalant, Bob shrugged. "No problem."

Brian laughed and clapped Bob on the arm. "All right. Enough sight-seeing. Let's start moving horses in."

*

They stood leaning on the fence, watching Clyde explore the paddock outside the newly inhabited main barn. Clyde plodded here and there, a few steps at a time, stopping frequently to be surprised at birds, or fence posts, or tufts of grass, or nothing in particular. When he wasn't being surprised at everything, he struck poses -- straight-backed, head held high, tail at attention -- making sure everyone knew he was huge and powerful and more awesome than anybody else.

Bob thought he was gorgeous, and possibly the biggest dork Bob had ever met in horse form.

"Okay," he said to Brian. "You're right. 'Clyde' is maybe a little perfect for that blockhead."

Brian laughed.

*

Bob sat in the shade of a tree with one of Smith's enormous sandwiches, having an early lunch. He was just outside the mare's pasture, where he could watch Dixie bound around her mother and the other mares, having one of her playful spazzy attacks.

In the pasture beyond that one, the rest of the horses stood off in the distance grazing. Bob could pick out Clyde from there -- Clyde was the one spending more time trying to boss the other horses around than eating.

Clyde had settled in surprisingly easily, which Bob thought said more about Brian's horses than about Clyde. The other horses were generally underwhelmed by Clyde's attempts to convince them he was the new leader of the herd, but they put up with him. Rocky would send a kick at him or whack him in the face with his horn if Clyde got too over-bearing; and Bob had seen one stare-down between Clyde and Goose that ended with Clyde wisely backing off before Goose gave into the urge to charge him. Other than that, though, there hadn't been any problems, thankfully.

Bob had just started eating yet when Brian came up and squatted beside him.

"Hey," Brian said.

He had his eyes on Dixie, smiling fondly like he could never help doing whenever he looked at her. It was something Bob had always appreciated about him, though lately every time he saw that expression on Brian's face he got a weird fluttery feeling in his stomach.

Like now.

He ignored the feeling and set his sandwich on the napkin in his lap. "Hey. Aren't you supposed to be locked in your study all day going through contracts?"

"Yeah. That's where I am right now. You're hallucinating me."

Bob snorted. "If you say so." He let the 'weirdo' go unspoken, but the way Brian made a face at him he clearly picked up on it anyway.

"Actually, I came out because Walker reminded me about something when he stopped by with more contracts." Brian sat back on his heels, and yanked a piece of grass from the lawn. He started winding it around his finger as he said, "I got a thing a few days ago, and I meant to talk to you about it, but I forgot... I've mentioned Pete Wentz, the guy whose stallion is Dixie's father?"

He waited for Bob to nod, and said, "I got a thing from him, an invitation. He's having some kind of party tonight, and he invited me. Us, actually."

"Us," Bob said. "He included me?"

"Yep," Brian said, looking back out at the mares. "By name."

"Why? I don't even know the guy."

Even as he said it, and as Brian's mouth quirked, a little wry, a little resigned, Bob figured it out.

"Ah."

Now it was Bob's turn to look away uncomfortably. He knew Wentz was some level of nobility, that all of Brian's non-staff friends were -- Wentz, McCracken and Allman, McCoy, Ivarsson, and a few others Bob couldn't remember the names of. They were friends because Brian bought and sold their horses, but apparently they were also the sort of friends who invited him to parties, too.

Invited him, and his 'husband.'

It had been a little while since Bob had been to a party with that sort of people, as someone's spouse. It was one of the responsibilities Bob thought he was getting away from when he came to Brian's house.

Brian was waiting for some kind of response, so Bob said, "Do you want me to go?"

"Only if you want to," Brian said, then after a beat, "But, you know, it might be kind of fun? I mean, Pete is...well, he's..." He trailed off, scrunching up his face while he thought. "I guess he's kind of like Gabe, especially with the inappropriate touching, but without the leering. But he's a good guy. His family is too. And the people who will be there are all friends of mine."

"If you want me to go, I'll go," Bob said. That avoided the question of whether he wanted to go -- he'd rather spend the evening pitch-forking basilisk nests, honestly -- but was true. If Brian wanted him to go, he would.

Not because Bob felt like he had to do what Brian told him to do, either. He'd realized fairly early on that wasn't how Brian worked.

But he'd also realized, more recently, that he liked doing things for Brian. It was one of the many things Bob tried not to think too hard about -- the fact that he liked it when Brian smiled, and liked it even more when Bob was the one making him smile. Bob had no idea where that was coming from, and suspected it was best if he didn't examine it too closely.

He expected Brian to demand Bob cut the crap and give him a straight answer, like he usually did when Bob was being wishy-washy about something. But Brian just gazed out at the horses for a moment, then said, "I do want you to go. If that's okay with you."

"Okay. What time do we have to leave?"

That got him a quick glance -- Brian making sure Bob meant it -- before Brian pushed to his feet.

"About six. Pete invites his guests to spend the night after these things, but I sent word that we've got horses to see to in the morning so we'll need to leave tonight."

Bob stifled a grimace. Thank god for that. It would be weird enough going as Brian's spouse, much less having to share a room in someone else's house with him.

Brian tugged his waistcoat straight and gave Bob an innocent smile. "By the way, you'll have to dress up."

Bob didn't stifle the grimace this time. "You waited until I agreed to go before telling me that, didn't you."

Brian laughed. "Breeches and stockings," he called over his shoulder as he headed back to the house. "Shiny shoes. _Combed hair._"

"I hate you," Bob yelled back.

*

Brendon and his friend Shane came out around four-thirty to remind Bob about the party. Shane was spending a lot of time at the house because of Brendon, but it turned out Shane knew his way around horses, too. He'd taken to hanging around the barn helping Bob out while Brendon took care of his grounds-keeping duties. He'd picked up what Bob taught him quickly -- he had not only the knack but also the interest that Bob thought could one day make him a good horse master.

Bob liked Shane, and he felt comfortable asking Shane to do the evening chores while he had to go to the party with Brian.

"Your babies are in good hands," Brendon said solemnly as Bob pulled off his work gloves and tossed them onto the work bench in the tack room. "Shane is the best unofficial apprentice horse master in the county."

Shane shook his head and elbowed Brendon. Then he tried not to look too pleased when Bob just rolled his eyes and said, "I know."

Bob went into the house through the mud room, stopping to pull off his filthy work boots. When he got them off and slipped on his house shoes, he found that the door into the servant's hall was gone.

So was the door he'd just come through from outside.

Sighing, he propped his hands on his hips. "Come on. I need to bathe for this stupid party."

A click to his right caught his attention. A section of the bead-board wall stood open a fraction.

"Um." Bob pulled the hidden door open and peered through. There was a narrow passage; he thought he could see stairs a little ways down. "Okay. I would love to see whatever it is you want to show me, but I really do need to get cleaned up."

He gave it a second, but neither the inner nor outer doors reappeared.

"Fine," he said, and slipped into the passage.

It didn't go far, as it turned out. Down a few yards, up a set of stairs, around a corner, then down another passage to a door. When he pushed the door open, he found himself in the master bathroom, quicker than he would have gotten there going the usual way.

"Oh," he said, and stepped through.

And stopped short.

Brian spun around at Bob's entrance, startled.

"What," Brian said, staring at the narrow door that had appeared between the wash stand and the linen cabinet. "Huh. That's new."

For a moment Bob forgot to respond.

Brian had clearly just got out of his bath. He had a towel slung low around his hips, and was using a hand towel on his hair. The rest of him was dripping wet.

Bob had not thought much about what Brian would look like naked, initially because he didn't care, and more recently because Bob felt creepy thinking such things about his employer. Even if his employer was also his husband and technically it should be okay, possibly even expected, for Bob to think things like that.

At any rate, he was going to have a hell of a time not thinking about what Brian looked like naked now, because what Bob could see of him at that moment looked very, very nice. Compact, lean; rivulets of water traced the curves of muscle, ran down the center of his chest to his navel, and drew Bob's eyes unwillingly to the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the towel.

Bob blinked rapidly and forced his eyes up to Brian's face.

"What?" he said.

"I said, how did you find the passage?"

Brian kept his voice casual, but Bob thought he looked a little uncomfortable.

_Probably because I was just ogling him. Shit._ Bob resisted the urge to kick the wall. He doubted the house had done this on purpose, but he would at least like to express how much he thought the house's timing sucked.

"The house," Bob said. He cleared his throat and turned away to push the door shut. Closed, it just looked like a piece of wall. "Locked me in the mud room and would only let me come up this way."

"Ah." Brian's discomfort turned wry. "That explains why my bath suddenly turned ice cold and started draining a couple minutes ago. Before I was done." He sighed. "My house likes you better, I swear."

A gurgle from the bathtub interrupted him. The both glanced down and saw the tub filling up again, with steaming water. Then the linen cabinet beside Bob popped open and a fluffy towel tumbled out into his hands.

Bob blinked at it, and said, "Um."

"Like I said. Definitely likes you better." Brian laughed and shook his head. "Okay. That's fine, I was close enough to done. Bathroom's all yours."

"Sorry?" Bob said awkwardly. He had the sudden urge to laugh too; he bit it back, though. He was pretty sure it would have been a little hysterical.

Brian just shook his head. "No, I'm used to it. I'm pretty sure the house likes everyone who lives here better than me."

For a moment he stood where he was, looking at Bob with an odd expression on his face -- a little of the discomfort from before, but underscored with something else. Bob felt his own face getting warm.

"I guess I should," he said, breaking off and gesturing at the mostly-full tub.

"Right," Brian said. "Right. I'll let you..." He trailed off too, grabbing his pile of discarded clothes from a chair beside the washstand. Then he ducked out into the bedroom, closing the door after him.

Bob shuffled through a variety of reactions, starting with mortification, stopping briefly at irritation at the house, and finally getting distracted by the image still at the forefront of his mind of Brian's lithe, wet body and that damn towel nearly falling off his hips.

Groaning, Bob tossed the towel onto the wash stand and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Next time please wait until he's at least dressed," he muttered at the house. "Please. Thank you. Dammit."

*

Brian didn't say anything about the weirdness in the bathroom. He also did not make Bob wear stockings to the party after all. Despite the fact that the style was considered a bit déclassé, Brian had sent to town earlier in the week for a set of the kind of long pants Bob liked, just in case Bob agreed to go to the party. They were made of much finer material than the heavy work cloth Bob usually got, of course, but they were also long enough to cover the stupid shiny buckles on his stupid dress shoes, and looked well enough with his nice waistcoat and jacket.

Bob knew he was plain and boorish and awkward, and pretty much the absolute opposite of stylish, and dressed like that he was probably even worse; but as long as Brian didn't mind, Bob didn't mind. He'd rather be ignored by Lords and Ladies who were too embarrassed to be seen standing next to somebody like him than to have to try to make conversation and be polite all evening.

Brian, on the other hand, dressed the part perfectly.

"I know, I look like an idiot," Brian grumbled when he came down the stairs from the bedroom. "Believe me, I don't wear this shit unless I absolutely have to."

"No, you look good," Bob said.

He meant it. The fitted jacket and silk cravat, the slim breeches and stockings, all cut and trimmed fine enough that Bob imagined even his own fantastically snobbish stepfather would have no reason to complain -- Brian looked just as natural in it as he did in his everyday work clothes.

_Or in nothing_. Bob shot the thought down and tried not to act as weird as he suddenly felt.

"Right, because you're staring at me like I've grown another head because I look _good_," Brian said, scowling at Bob as he messed with his cufflinks.

Bob smiled weakly and turned away to open the front door.

"Well, the silver detail on your jacket is a little blinding," he said. "And what are those, birds embroidered on your waistcoat? Very masculine."

"Stuff it," Brian muttered. When they got to Worm waiting at the bottom of the steps holding the carriage door open, he added, "And I don't want to hear a word from you, either, asshole."

"Looking sexy, Schechter," Worm said. "Are those squirrels on your waistcoat?"

Worm winked at Bob as Brian climbed into the carriage cussing them out under his breath.

*

Kingston House, Wentz's sprawling manor, was huge and ornate. Bob wanted to turn around and go home as soon as he saw it.

It wasn't so bad inside, though. Still huge and ornate, but the atmosphere was a lot more relaxed than Bob had expected.

When they stepped inside, a couple of servants took their overcoats, laughing and joking with Brian as they did. Worm followed them in and was directed to the same ballroom as the other guests. Bob saw him wave at and make a beeline for a bald guy with a goatee who was dressed in the Wentz house livery.

Bob tried to imagine servants being welcomed into any party the Baron had ever dragged him too. His brain rebelled.

On the way to the ballroom, Brian pointed out various areas he thought might interest Bob.

"Washroom," he said, pointing to a discreet door just beneath the main stairway. "Another washroom down the hall; the billiards room. And that --" he indicated a closed door halfway down the main hallway. "Is the library, which is designated off limits to drunk people, people sneaking away for a fuck, and people wanting to be loud and sociable. Besides a lot of books and comfortable chairs, it also has a nice balcony. Where you can go to get away from drunk and overly sociable people. If you need to."

Bob raised his eyebrows. "Really."

"Really. So if I can't find you in the ballroom or billiards room when it's time to go, I'll look for you there?"

Scrubbing a hand over his mouth to hide his smile, Bob nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

To Bob's credit, he lasted quite a while. On the one hand, he'd learned to smile and nod his way through plenty of miserable parties while married to the Baron. And on the other hand, Brian's friends really were nice people.

Loud people, who partied harder than anyone Bob had ever met. But really nice, too.

Wentz, who was the Duke of Wilmette, came from old money. It turned out that he supported his household on money he earned from investments, though.

"My sister is the Duchess of Wilmette, and she inherited the whole shebang," Wentz told him. He talked with his hands, sloshing champagne out of his glass, and smiled with a lot of teeth. He was practically draped over Bob but still had to raise his voice to be heard. "She gave me an allowance, but I actually got most of this crap playing the market. I have no idea what I'm doing, though. People ask me about my investment portfolio and I have to start talking about my dick to chase them off because I don't even know what that is. I'm just a lucky motherfucker."

"I guess so," Bob said.

Wentz pointed with his champagne glass at a woman sitting on a couch playing cards with a small mob. She was gorgeous -- milky skin, red hair, a smile that when she caught Pete's eye and aimed it at him managed to be both sultry and sweet. While Bob watched, she slapped her cards down on the table and pumped her fist in the air victoriously.

"That's my wife," Pete said. "She's amazing. We just had a baby, and he's amazing." He craned his head to peer through the crowd because he was too short to peer over it. "And our Patrick is around here somewhere. He's amazing too." He knocked back his champagne and then grinned damply at Bob. "Lucky motherfucker, I'm not kidding you."

Bob lost track of Brian almost immediately, but he did stumble across a few people he knew. Brian's attorney, Ms. Morgan was there with a gorgeous, tall blond woman who looked like she could kick Bob's ass. Ms. Morgan introduced her date as Maja, and told Bob to stop calling her 'Ms. Morgan' because it made her feel like her mother.

Then he found Jepha Howard, who Brian used to borrow to manage his horses when he traveled. Bob had met him a couple of times and they got along well enough, so Bob let Jepha drag him down onto the couch he was sharing with some friends.

Somebody pressed a shot glass into his hand. He took it fully intending not to drink it, but somewhere along the line he discovered he'd not only knocked that one back, but put away a few more.

That was less surprising than the fact that it didn't worry him in the slightest. He felt strangely comfortable in that enormous ballroom; Brian's friends were good people.

Occasionally strange people, but still good people.

Jepha introduced him to the people he'd come with by first name only. It wasn't until everyone was solidly buzzed and Bert and Dan were trying to one-up each other with I'm-grosser-than-you stories that Bob figured out that Bert and Quinn were the Minor Lords McCracken and Allman that Brian had mentioned and occasionally worked for.

Bob felt he could be forgiven for not knowing he was getting slightly toasted with nobility, given that none of them appeared to have bathed in weeks and they all cussed like sailors.

Eventually Bert started setting things on fire. Bob decided it was time to go elsewhere when drunk people started offering to try to put the fire by dumping their (alcoholic) drinks on it. Bob ducked out of the ballroom, but not before hearing Wentz's donkey laugh and his "I hated that rug, but you guys, I think I love the table even more with the scorch marks, seriously!"

Bob found the washroom, and after he used it he stood in the hallway for a while debating whether to brave the ballroom again or not.

A roar went up from that direction for god only knew what reason. Bob made a face.

"Not," he decided. Hiding in the library for the rest of the evening sounded like a much better plan.

As Brian had promised, the library was full of books and lacking in noisy drunk people. Besides the simple walls full of books that most wealthy people had, Wentz also had free-standing bookcases. Bob wandered through them, not really looking for anything in particular. As he came around the end of a bookcase full of children's books, a breeze washed over him.

It felt fantastic, cooling his face and pushing some of the alcohol fuzz from his brain. He followed the breeze to its source: a pair of ceiling-height French doors, opened up to a quiet balcony.

The manor was built on a hill, so even though Bob was still on the main floor the library balcony perched nearly two stories above the sharply descending slope. Beneath the full moon, the box-hedge labyrinth covering the yard at the bottom of the hill looked both elegant and a little spooky. Far beyond that, far past the white stone wall that surrounded the manor, Bob could see the tree line that marked the border between Wentz's property and Brian's.

He didn't know how long he stood out there breathing in the fresh air and letting the silence soothe his ringing ears. He started counting night fairies in the garden and had got up into the fifties when he heard a soft flutter and tap behind him.

A small café table was tucked in the corner of the balcony, just to the side of the open doors. Enough light came through the glassed sidelights that he could see someone sitting there.

"Shit." He lurched back a step, startled. "Sorry, I didn't know you were out here."

The man shook his head. "No, my fault, I should have made more noise."

He pushed back his chair to half stand, offering an awkward, brief bow instead of a hand to shake. "Patrick Stump. This is my house, but I'm hiding out here on the balcony instead of attending to my guests. So. Um. I hope you'll accept my apology on everyone else's behalf."

Bob huffed a laugh. "Bob Bryar, and...yeah, I'm pretty much hiding too, so you won't catch any flack from me."

"Okay, good to know." Patrick smiled wryly and sat down, tugging at the brim of his odd little tricorn hat. He had a half-finished game of Solitaire spread out in front of him. "So do you ever play cards while you hide from parties? We could play rummy, or Blackjack. Or, you know, Go Fish is always an option too."

Bob laughed. "Blackjack would be good."

*

By the time Brian found him a few hours later, Bob was mostly sober and Patrick had wiped the floor with him at Blackjack, rummy, Crazy Eights _and_ Go Fish.

But Bob didn't care. Patrick knew everything about every horse breed in existence, including the names of horses that had made their mark in various historical events. He had also been all over the world learning breeding and training techniques from respected masters in dozens of foreign countries.

And if that wasn't amazing enough, he still demanded Bob's opinion on everything, listened very seriously, and was even occasionally impressed with what Bob had to say.

Bob was not in love, but he was deeply, deeply in like.

"Schechter," Patrick said, looking up over Bob's head.

Bob turned to see Brian leaning on the door.

"Hi, Patrick. And Bob, hi." Brian smiled as blearily as he sounded.

"Time to go?" Bob said.

"Mmm. Yes. Because otherwise I'm going to find a comfy chair in the library and sleep in it."

Bob stood quickly as Brian started to wobble despite the doorframe holding him up. Brian didn't fall, but Bob stuck close just in case.

Patrick stood too. "Sorry we didn't get to talk, Brian." He futzed with his hat again, something Bob noticed he did whenever he felt the slightest bit embarrassed about anything. "You know how it is. With crowds. And me. And me not doing well in crowds."

"Nah, don't worry about it," Brian waved him off. "I'm glad you got to meet Bob, though. Because Bob. Bob's great, isn't he?"

Bob felt his ears get warm, and was glad it was too dark for anyone to see if he started turning red.

Patrick just grinned sympathetically at Bob. "Yes Bob is."

"Okay," Bob said, taking Brian's elbow. "Time to go."

He unslouched Brian from the door and turned him in the direction of the library. "It was nice meeting you, Patrick."

"Likewise. And hey." Patrick came around the table and stepped into the library with them. "Feel free to drop in any time. You can send ahead to see if I'm home, but we're not heading out of the country again for a few months, until the baby gets a little older, so I should be around."

Bob flipped back through their conversations, trying to remember if he'd told Patrick, who was a Middle Lord in his own right, that he was just an untitled orphan with nothing to his name. He was pretty sure the essentials had to have come across somehow. But Patrick's offer still seemed sincere.

"I appreciate the offer," Bob said. "And you're welcome to come by too. I mean --" he glanced at Brian, hoping he didn't mind Bob speaking for him. "I'm sure Brian wouldn't mind."

Brian shook his head. "Nope. Standing invitation, Stump, you know it."

Patrick agreed to stop by soon -- "I'm curious to see how you're doing with your Clyde. And I've been wanting to meet Melody's filly," -- and they left him just outside the library.

When they got outside, Worm was waiting with the carriage. He helped Bob haul Brian into the carriage and handed up a big mug of water and a little pouch of headache powder, compliments of Wentz's in-house physician.

This wasn't the first time Bob had seen Brian wasted, but it was the first time he'd had to share a carriage with him. Sloppy-drunk people and bumpy avenues did not always work well together. But other than stopping once halfway home to let Brian out to relieve himself on a tree, the ride was uneventful.

In other words, no vomiting. Bob was very relieved about that.

Brian stayed awake the whole ride, too, which Bob thought was kind of surprising. Between the bathroom break and the headache powder mixed into the water, he even got a little more clearheaded along the way.

"So it was okay?" Brian said. "You were okay? They're good people, right?"

"Yeah, it was good. Definitely good people." Bob hesitated, chewing his lip while he gauged how drunk Brian was, and how much of this conversation he might remember. "I had fun, actually."

They hadn't reached the lane up to Brian's house yet, with its row of fairy lights, so Bob couldn't see much beyond Brian's outline. After a long pause, when Bob started to wonder if Brian had fallen asleep, Brian said, "Really? Like, actual fun?"

"Is there some other kind of fun?" Bob said. Then gave himself a mental box on the ear. It wasn't nice to mess with drunk people.

"Well," Brian said, uncertainly. "There's. You know. The kind where you lie about it just to make me feel better."

Bob smiled even though Brian couldn't see it. "I'm not lying. I had actual fun."

"Oh." Brian sounded surprised. "Oh. Good. Good."

Then after another pause, he said, in a rush as though he had to get it out before he changed his mind, "So how did it compare to your Baron's parties?"

Bob's breath caught, involuntarily. He'd been comparing Wentz's party with other parties he'd been to with the Baron all night. But he had never really talked about the Baron with Brian, and Brian had never asked. Bob preferred it that way, frankly.

"It was," Bob said. "It was...better, I guess. The people were nicer."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Bob shrugged. "That's not really hard, probably, since the Baron's friends were all snobs and assholes. But still. Yeah."

"Good," Brian said. "Good."

Bob thought that would be it, but almost immediately Brian said, "So, just in general. I mean. How do things compare?"

"What do you mean?" Bob said cautiously.

Brian made a jerky motion with his hand, and Bob realized Brian's hands were shaking a little. He wondered if it was from the liquor, or something else.

"I mean..." Brian dropped his hand into his lap, and linked his fingers tightly. After a moment, he made a frustrated noise. "You know what? I met that guy once. I don't think I told you that. He wanted to hire me, so I went out to vet his stables. Jesus. He has some beautiful, beautiful horses."

Bob looked away from him, out the window, a knot twisting in his gut. "He does."

Not that Bob ever really got to see them. His first day there the Baron had gotten angry with him for talking out of turn, and banned him from the stables. The stable hands were directed to keep him out. And the Baron only took him riding a couple of times.

But they really were beautiful horses. Every one of them.

"Gorgeous," Brian murmured. "Best money can buy. And he treated them all like shit." He was shaking his head and Bob could see him clenching his hands together hard. "His stables were nice, his staff were decent. But he brought out his prize stallion to show him off to me, and I don't think that son of a bitch gave a single command without using his whip." Brian stopped shaking his head and looked at Bob through the darkness. "He had something beautiful and, and perfect, and he had no idea how to treat it right."

"Yeah," Bob said. He felt like his throat was closing up; he had to force the words out. "That sounds about right."

A movement in the darkness made Bob glance at Brian. It was hard to tell, but it almost looked like Brian was wringing his hands.

"And I know my horses aren't so beautiful, and my house is strange," Brian said. "And I'm not exactly filthy rich, and I'll always have to work for a living. But I'm just hoping that I'm not. Or that I'm. That my house is. That you're." He opened his hands in an uncertain gesture.

"Happy with you?" Bob said. He said it softly, because he wasn't really sure if he wanted Brian to hear it.

But Brian said, just as softly, "Yes."

The answer to that was easy. It wasn't hard to be happy with Brian. He got to spend time with horses every day, people were nice, and nobody asked him to do anything he desperately didn't want to do.

But even beyond that -- he'd spent plenty of time over the last half-year imagining what his life would be like without the Baron in it. But with Brian, Bob was getting to a point where he didn't want to imagine life in some other place, with some other person.

That was for reasons beyond a simple comparison between Brian and the Baron. It was for reasons that just had to do with...Brian.

Something made it hard to admit that, though. Bob didn't know if it was embarrassment, or nervousness, or something else altogether, but whatever it was clenched in Bob's chest and made it hard to speak for a moment.

Bob cleared his throat and found some words. "Yes. I am. Happy, I mean."

It came out more quietly than he intended, but Bob knew Brian heard it by the soft whoosh as Brian let his held breath out.

*

Whatever Brian remembered of their conversation, he didn't bring it up again. Everything was normal the next day, starting with the house virtually throwing Brian down the stairs instead of letting him sleep off his hangover. Brian moaned through breakfast, bitched through the morning chores, refused to go lie down when Bob told him to, and was fine by the time Dixie's halter practice rolled around.

No mention of stupid, sappy, half-drunk admissions of contentedness came up at all.

Bob was glad Brian, at least, seemed to have forgotten about it, because Bob couldn't. Thinking about what life was like before Brian, and admitting out loud that he really was happy there -- he couldn't get it off his mind.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing something very wrong, only he wasn't sure what. He had this horrible sense that something bad was going to happen if he didn't figure out what he was doing and stop it.

But since Brian acted completely normal, Bob told himself he was just being weird and _that_ was the thing he needed to knock off.

He should have let himself worry, but by the time he realized that it was too late.

*

A couple days later, a storm rolled in early in the night, after Bob had gone to bed. The crashing thunder woke him up, shooting him straight up in bed with his heart pounding in time with the wind-rattled windows.

He was still alone in the room, which meant Brian hadn't finished his business and nightcap routine. Bob threw on some clothes, grabbed the lantern that had flared to life for him on the bedside table and headed downstairs. Dixie had been through a few storms earlier in the summer and was to the point of handling them as well as any of the other horses. Bob hadn't seen Clyde deal with bad weather yet, though, and Bob wanted to check on him.

When he got to the barn Brian was already there. He was soaking wet like Bob, but Bob kept his eyes to himself. He already knew what Brian looked like wet, and it was something he tried not to think about. Usually failed, but at least he tried.

"Looks kind of nervous," Brian said when Bob stepped up beside him. He had to pitch his voice up to be heard over the rain hammering the barn roof. "But not too bad."

All of the horses in the barn had come to the front of their stalls to whuffle at them. They all sounded a bit anxious, but Clyde was the only one shuffling around and shaking his head at the crack of thunder and flash of lightening.

"I think I'll hang out in here for a bit anyway," Bob said. "Just to keep an eye on him."

He ran his fingers through the hair plastered to his face, pushing it back, and glanced at Brian.

Brian was staring at him. Sort of. His eyes were fixed on Bob's chest where Bob's shirt was plastered to his skin, but in the dim lantern light Bob thought he looked a little dazed.

"Schechter," he said. "You okay?"

Blinking once, slowly, Brian's eyes drifted up to Bob's face. Bob still couldn't read his expression, but when he spoke, he just sounded tired, maybe a little drunk.

"Yeah." He held up the lantern to look around. "Okay. That's a good idea, you staying out here for a bit. I'll just. See you back inside later."

He jerked into motion and headed out, pausing only to add, "Come get me if you need me," before he was gone.

Bob got comfortable on a stool against the wall, and waited out the storm.

By the time the worst of it passed them over, leaving just the driving rain, Bob wasn't worried about Clyde. Clyde jittered quite a bit at the noise and light, but it was his usual kind of jitters -- his 'I am suspicious of saddles' jitters as opposed to his 'ropes look a little like whips and I will kill you if you snap them at me' jitters.

Bob heaved off the stool, stretching the kinks out of his back and shoulders. He felt soggy and gross, and he was going to have to get wet again on his way back to the house.

"But you're fine, aren't you." He stopped in front of Clyde's stall, sliding his hand up Clyde's cheek when the horse came over to nose-bump his shoulder. He scratched the sweet spot at the base of Clyde's horn until Clyde made the blissed-out grumbling sound Bob thought was hilarious. "All right. I need a bed. Good night, you big blockhead."

The rain wasn't coming down quite as hard as earlier, but he was still dripping again when he made it back inside. As he was about to go up the stairs, he saw light beneath Brian's study door.

"Is he still up?" Bob said.

The house didn't answer in so many words, but the study door did swing open a couple inches. Bob stopped and pushed it farther open.

Brian sat slouched in his comfy leather chair, with his boots up on his desk. He had a bottle of whiskey clutched loosely to his chest, and his hair and clothes still looked damp.

Bob sighed. "What the hell are you doing sitting in here in wet clothes? You have to leave for the continent for a week and a half tomorrow. You're going to get sick, and then you'll be miserable the whole time you're gone."

"Maybe," Brian said, rocking his head back and gazing up at Bob blearily. "That would make the trip more interesting, right?"

He only slurred a little. That meant he could probably make it up to bed on his own two feet without falling down the stairs and breaking his neck.

Probably.

Tugging the bottle out of Brian's hand, Bob set it on the desk. "Come on. Up. You need to get out of those clothes and get to bed."

Brian let his head tilt to the side and closed his eyes. "I think I should sleep here tonight."

"Oh right, that's a great idea. So you can be sick, hung over, _and_ stiff as hell from sleeping in a chair." Bob set his lantern on Brian's desk so he could get hold of both of Brian's arms.

"No," Brian said as Bob hoisted him to his feet. "I _really_ think I should sleep here tonight, Bob."

He didn't resist when Bob pulled an arm over his shoulders and picked his lantern back up, though. On their way to the door, Bob said, "Could you put out Brian's lantern, please?"

The room darkened behind them immediately.

"Thank you," Bob said.

Brian didn't speak all the way up the stairs and into their room, or when Bob perched him on the edge of the bed and stepped into the washroom to grab a couple of hand towels. When he came out Brian was fumbling uselessly with his buttons.

"They're all --" Brian said, glaring cross-eyed down his nose at the buttons. "They're all slippery. Stupid rain."

Bob snorted. He dropped a towel on Brian's head and said, "Here. Dry your hair."

He had to kneel to get at Brian's shirt. The buttons came apart easy enough, since he wasn't drunk. He made quick work of them, then sat back on his heels.

"Okay. You need help getting things off, or..."

He glanced up at Brian, and the words died in his throat.

Despite the liquor fog, Brian's eyes were dark and intense. Bob had seen that look before. He'd even seen it directed at himself. Before Brian he'd been married for almost six months, after all.

Bob waited for the twist in his chest, waited for the sick feeling to settle over him like it always had whenever someone in the Baron's house had looked at him like that.

It didn't.

Something else did run through him, though. It left his mouth dry and stirred up warmth in the pit of his belly.

"No," Brian said. His voice came out a hoarse whisper. "I don't need any help. I can. I can do it."

His gaze slid away from Bob, and he shifted the still-damp shirt off his shoulders. The cloth stuck on his arms, though, and he was just uncoordinated enough that he couldn't deal with it. Bob heard him hiss "fuck" under his breath. He sounded so resigned and miserable that Bob couldn't help a shaky laugh.

"Here --" He got up out of his crouch and tugged the shirt down, helping Brian free his arms and hands. Then he had to help get the nightshirt on when Brian got it caught around his head. Bob was snickering uncontrollably -- possibly a little hysterically -- by the time they got to Brian's pants.

"Fucker," Brian muttered. He shoved at Bob's shoulder, still not looking at him. "Get off. I can get the rest of this."

"Okay, okay." Bob backed off and moved around to his side of the bed.

He toweled off his head and peeled off his own wet clothes, throwing his own nightshirt on as quickly as he could. He left his clothes where they were in a wet mess on the floor and hoped the house would forgive him just this once, and practically dove into bed.

Brian was already curled up on his side, with his back to Bob. Everything probably would have been okay if Bob had just put out the lantern right then and gone to sleep.

But he didn't. There was something about the curve of Brian's body under the covers, the way his neck looked so exposed with his head ducked down -- for a moment Bob just wanted to look. _It can't hurt to just look_, he told himself.

Brian must have felt it, though. He rolled over suddenly and Bob couldn't look away fast enough. Their eyes met, and he was caught.

Freeing a hand from the blankets Brian swiped it across his mouth.

"Bob," he said."I don't. I'm. I'm kind of drunk."

He tried to laugh at himself, but it was weak and nervous.

"Yeah, I noticed," Bob said.

Brian nodded. He closed his eyes and pushed himself to sit up against the headboard. For a moment he sat there with his knees pulled up and his eyes closed.

Then he said, "See, when I'm a little drunk like this?" He opened his eyes. "I can just say. You know. That I'm a little drunk."

Bob nodded slowly. "That...makes no sense whatsoever."

Brian laughed, loose and helpless, and then he was reaching out.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I just have to -- I need --"

His hand slipped around Bob's neck, cool and trembling. He didn't pull at Bob; he did all the work, leaning in, tilting his head up and brushing his mouth across Bob's.

It wasn't even really a kiss, but Bob still felt it all the way down to his fingertips, down to the pit of his stomach.

Brian was on his knees in front of Bob; even though he moved his mouth away, he stayed close, resting his forehead against Bob's.

"I really, really want," he said. The words sounded like they hurt, and his hand got heavy on Bob's neck. "For a while, I've just wanted."

"I know," Bob said.

He did know. It was what Bob had been so worried about at the beginning, that maybe that was all Brian had wanted. It had been such a relief when his worry turned out to be groundless.

That had obviously changed somewhere along the line for Brian.

For Brian, and for himself too.

"I know," he said again.

There must have been something in his voice, because Brian made a harsh sound, and this time the kiss was real. Their mouths crushed together, Brian's hand tightened on the back of Bob's neck, and he held Bob there until Bob started craving air. But when Brian finally pulled away Bob found he'd grabbed hold of the front of Brian's nightshirt to make sure he didn't go too far.

Brian fisted his hands in Bob's nightshirt too, and he tugged up on it. "Can you," he said. "I want to see."

A flash of cold shivered through Bob; he hated that part, he'd always hated that part, he hated the way people looked at him when he was completely exposed.

"Wait." He caught Brian's wrists. "Wait."

He couldn't turn Brian down, not with the flush in Brian's cheeks and the way his eyes locked on Bob's. And not with the way he could still feel the heat of Brian's mouth against his.

So instead he pushed, nudged Brian back until Brian got it and lay down.

Bob pinched a bit of Brian's nightshirt and gave it a yank. "You first."

Brian didn't hesitate, and this time, since the fabric was dry, he didn't have any trouble getting it off. He was as naked underneath it as Bob was beneath his own, but there was no self-consciousness in the way he laid back again and reached for Bob.

"Come here." He couldn't reach far enough to grab hold, but his fingertips ghosted over Bob's knee. "Please."

It took Bob a moment to act, because his eyes needed to drink in the way Brian looked like that, stretched out on the covers. He was lithe, a mix of muscular and soft that made Bob want to run his hands all over him. He had a mark just above his hip that Bob hadn't noticed that time in the bathroom. Bob traced it with a fingertip, the stylized outline of horse with its back arched and its head down in mid-toss.

"When did you get this?" he said.

Brian shuddered beneath his touch and made a frustrated sound. "Doesn't matter. Long time ago. Come here."

This time he sat up enough to pull at Bob's nightshirt. Bob blew out a breath and helped it off. Brian wouldn't let him hang onto it, tugging it out of his hands and tossing it onto the floor.

"Jesus," Brian breathed. "Look at you."

Bob tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. "I'd rather not."

Brian reached out, just shy of touching Bob's face, and then let his hand drift down to skim feather light down Bob's chest. "Are you kidding?"

"No, but you're drunk."

Bob tried to discreetly pluck the cover up over his hips, but Brian batted it away.

"I'm drunk," Brian agreed. "But not _blind_. Bob, you're."

He slid his hand down Bob's arm this time, and drew him in. His hand ran up Bob's arm while they kissed, trailed over his shoulder to pause against his chest. He flattened his hand, shifted it; his work-rough palm dragged across Bob's nipple and Bob couldn't hold back a shaky gasp.

Then Brian was pressing, distracting Bob with his mouth while he put a little weight behind his hand, until it was Bob on his back and Brian braced on locked arms above him.

The way his eyes raked over Bob's body, it was all Bob could do not to wrap his arms around himself to try to hide just that little bit.

"You seriously have no idea, do you," Brian said.

"You're _drunk_," Bob said weakly. He had plenty idea. The Baron had never said anything about the way Bob looked, but he never had to. He'd simply never bothered to look all that closely. The Baron's wife had only ever looked at him with disgust. Beyond that, there had just been disinterest. Nobody cared how he looked, so long as he did what they wanted.

That pretty much told him all he really needed to know about his appearance.

He didn't want to have to worry about that now, though, so he reached up and pulled Brian on top of him. Then Brian wasn't looking at him, had forgot all about looking at him with the way their bodies fit together.

And Brian's body against Bob's fit perfectly, warm and hard everywhere their skin touched. Brian groaned into Bob's neck and shifted his hips, pressing the hot length of his cock against the crease of Bob's thigh. And then another shift and their cocks slid against each other.

Bob bit back a gasp. Brian's breath was hot against his throat, and his mouth feather-light.

"I want," Brian whispered. "I wish I could."

Brian made up for the words he couldn't form by grinding down again, by sliding his hand down Bob's side, between their bodies, between Bob's legs. His hand cupping gently around Bob's balls and his fingers pressing between Bob's ass cheeks took Bob's breath away. He couldn't help it; he bucked, and he pulled his leg up, opening himself up to Brian's hand.

Brian made a broken sound and buried his face against Bob's neck again. His hand didn't pause, though, stroking and kneading, teasing until Bob started to shake.

"Bob," Brian moaned. "Bob. Fuck. I want to, I _need_ \--"

He lifted up, slid his hand up Bob's thigh to push his leg open more. When he settled back down, his cock slid between Bob's legs, into the crease of his ass.

It startled Bob, broke through his own hazy need as he realized what Brian wanted. He didn't know if Brian was drunk enough to try fucking him like that, dry except for the dampness Bob could feel at the tip of Brian's cock.

"Wait, wait," he said. "No. Hang on."

And fuck, he wanted it. He wanted to find out what it would be like with Brian, because he was absolutely certain it would be _good_. But there was nothing at hand to slick Brian up with.

"Next time," he said. "Okay?"

Brian mumbled something incoherent against Bob's throat, but his disagreement was in his tone and in the way he thrust, dragging his cock across Bob's hole -- not pushing in, but making it very clear he wanted to.

And, okay, wow that felt good, made Bob's cock throb with want, but, "No," Bob said again. "Just. Here."

He twisted, hoisting Brian's hips up briefly before settling Brian back on him. He got them lined up again and squeezed Brian's ass with both hands, pressing him down and grinding them together. The way Brian hummed and trembled, he didn't seem to mind the change in plan. Bob paused again long enough to give one hand a couple of wet licks. Then he slid his palm over the heads of their cocks to catch the slickness and wrapped his hand around both their cocks.

Brian's hand trailed up Bob's neck and for a second Bob thought Brian might be going for his hair. But all Brian did was stroke his hand gently over Bob's cheek. His thumb brushed along Bob's jaw, under his chin; the pressure was so slight, but Bob followed it, tilting his head back a little to expose his neck.

Brian's mouth against his throat went from soft to insistent and hot. He kissed and sucked, not too hard, just enough that the sensation built slowly, an ache and then a sting that didn't hurt but sent little shocks across Bob's skin.

Then Brian started to thrust in Bob's hand, against Bob's cock, and Bob thought _next time he has to fuck me, like that_ \--

The heat in Bob's belly tightened. He jerked and a gasp got caught in his throat, coming out a helpless grunt, and then he was spilling over his hand, against both their bellies.

He lost the rhythm he had going with his hand, but his come made the slide abruptly smoother, and hotter, and that was all it took for Brian. He sank down, trapping Bob's hand between them, biting down on Bob's shoulder to smother his moan as he came.

Bob had his arm wrapped loosely around Brian's back as they lay there. He felt boneless and comfortably warm, though that might have been due to having Brian draped over him. Either way, it felt good.

Finally Brian made a rumbly, sated sound, and levered up enough to slide off to Bob's side. For a moment he stayed propped up on an elbow, looking down at Bob with an expression Bob couldn't read.

"What?" Bob said. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet room, even though he whispered.

Brian shook his head, smiling slightly. "Nothing. Just, you."

He leaned down and brushed an off-center kiss across Bob's mouth, and then sank tiredly down with his head on Bob's shoulder.

Bob stared at the ceiling, giving Brian to a count of thirty; then he checked, and sure enough, Brian was asleep.

He didn't wake up, either, when Bob squirmed out from under him and grabbed one of their nightshirts off the floor -- he didn't check whose it was -- to clean them off. He also slept through it when Bob blew out the lantern and got them both under the covers.

But as soon as Bob got settled, Brian rolled over in his sleep. He slung his arm over Bob's chest and scooted up against his back. Bob drifted off like that, warm, his fingers tangled up with Brian's against his stomach.

*

**SIX**

For the first time since moving into Brian's house, barring the times when Brian was traveling or on pregnant mare duty, Bob woke up alone.

It was later than Bob usually got up, though, so he didn't think anything of it. He got washed up, got dressed, and went out to the stables.

Brian wasn't there, though he had obviously been through earlier -- the horses were all fed, the troughs drained and refilled with fresh water. Since Brian was leaving around midday, Bob figured he was in his study getting all of his paperwork together. Bob stood just outside the barn, looking at the house and debating whether or not to go in and knock on Brian's study door.

He had no idea what he'd say. 'Thanks for the sort-of sex, it was nice'? Or maybe 'Was it okay for you too'? What he really wanted to say was something along the lines of 'More again, possibly as soon as you get back, and with fucking?' but even the thought of saying that out loud made Bob flush with embarrassment.

Then Clyde whinnied and kicked at the wall of his stall to get Bob's attention, and Bob decided to not to go in. He'd catch Brian at lunch, if Brian didn't come out to the stables before that. By then he'd have figured out what to say.

A few hours later, he'd got the horses out to pasture and scrubbed Dixie down after she slid into a mud puddle left over from the previous night's rain. He had also got Clyde to stand still next to the mounting post and let Bob lean his weight on his back. It was the first time Clyde had stood for anything on his back. Instead of jigging out from beneath Bob, this time Clyde swung his head around and snorted irritably at him, and then lost interest and rubbed his face on the fence.

Bob did not explode with pride, but it was a close thing. He decided to hell with waiting to see Brian in a little while, because he wanted to tell him about Clyde now.

When he stepped out of the barn, though, there was a carriage in the courtyard.

Pulling out of the courtyard, actually.

Worm saw Bob come out into the sun and waved from his place on the box. Bob lifted a hand automatically to wave back.

He could see the outline of a person in the carriage, and the carriage was leaving, which meant that obviously the person in the carriage was Brian. Bob watched it go, all the way down the lane to the gate in the gray stone wall and into the woods. He stood watching for a while after that, too.

He tried to think _maybe it wasn't Brian in the carriage_, but of course it was. Brian always hired Worm, and Brian had hired Worm to come that day to pick him up. Of course it was Brian in the carriage.

But Brian hadn't come out to the stables before he left. He hadn't come out to say goodbye to the horses, to slip Dixie a sugar cube and Goose a bit of apple.

Brian always went out to the stables before he left on a trip. _Always_.

Bob stood outside the barn in the sun refusing to think for as long as he could. Eventually he couldn't avoid it, though.

The only reason he could think of that Brian wouldn't have come to say goodbye to the horses; the reason, probably, that Brian had got up and left the bedroom without waking Bob up; the reason Brian had hid out in his study all morning and then had Worm called early --

He'd been avoiding Bob. Obviously.

Bob's mind stumbled back through everything that had happened the night before, trying to remember the details. The answer was there; he knew it. Something he'd done wrong. But there was nothing, Brian hadn't _said_ anything was wrong --

He remembered what Brian had wanted to do, how far he had wanted to go -- and he remembered pushing Brian off. He hadn't even thought twice about it, because he could do that, with Brian, he could put something like that off and Brian wouldn't get upset. And Bob had still made it good. Brian had looked happy after.

Brian had been tired, though, and drunk. Maybe too tired to get mad, maybe too drunk to bother with criticism in the middle of the night.

"Shit," Bob said. "I'm stupid. So stupid."

Because honestly, he knew better. There were always some things a person wouldn't want to compromise on, no matter how nice they were, and in Bob's experience sex was one of them. Why the hell Bob had assumed that wouldn't be true for Brian, he had no idea, but clearly he'd been wrong.

He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, got a handful and gripped it tight. It didn't matter right now. Brian was gone and Bob had horses to take care of. He couldn't even try to fix this until Brian got home, anyway. _Don't think about it_, he told himself. _Just...don't think about it._

*

Two days into Brian being gone, Bob had completely failed at not thinking about it.

On one hand, he couldn't sleep, not in that bed, because laying there just made him think about that night and what he should have done differently. He'd ended up sleeping on one of the stupid little chaise lounges in the sitting room. Trying to sleep, anyway, since there was no cushioning and he barely fit.

On the other hand, he had started to get pissed off.

Brian was supposed to be different. Bob had thought he was different, anyway. Brian, Bob had started to think, was the kind of person his father had sounded like whenever his mother had talked about him. A good person, the kind of person who could be a friend, or even family. Brian never treated Bob like he was a nuisance, never made Bob feel stupid, and never made Bob do humiliating things. Brian loved his horses just as much as Bob did. And Bob liked being around Brian.

Bob had actually started falling in love with the son of a bitch.

"I'm an idiot, Clyde," Bob said. "Lord Ellis always said so, turns out he was right."

Clyde sucked in a breath, ballooning out his barrel chest and twitching his withers. Bob patted him on the neck and murmured nonsense softly to him. He'd been standing on the hitching post for he didn't know how long, draped over Clyde's shoulders, one arm around Clyde's neck. Partly he was doing it for training purposes, to continue getting Clyde used to weight on his back, but mostly it just felt good. Clyde was solid and steady, and no longer lunged out from beneath Bob just when Bob thought it was safe to relax.

_There's a metaphor in there,_ Bob thought. _Which I could probably pin down if I wasn't an idiot._

He slowly pushed up enough so that he could slide off the hitching post and hop to the ground. Clyde shifted, foot to foot, and made grumpy sounds at Bob.

"I know, you're hungry." He reached up to scratch around Clyde's ear while he gathered up the halter lead, and led Clyde back into the barn.

With his eyes adjusted for sunlight, he only saw the outline of the person in the dim barn at first. He assumed it was Brendon, because Brendon had been tracking Bob down several times a day to talk Bob's ear off. He said Bob seemed down. Bob said Brendon was lucky he didn't get tossed in the horse trough for being so goddamned nosy and annoying.

"Working in a stable," the person said. "With draft horses, no less."

Bob felt the voice like a cold knife in his stomach. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

The Baron was wandering up the aisle through the barn like he owned it, but at Bob's words he paused. He raised his eyebrows, smiling like Bob's ill manners amused him. His eyes were sharp and hard, though.

Bob felt his face flush, but he didn't apologize. He didn't have to, not anymore.

Then the Baron shrugged and started forward again. "I see you've lost what few manners you had to this filthy place."

The Baron scanned the horses in their stalls critically as he strolled. Bob was sure he wouldn't have liked anything he saw, just on principle, even if Brian had had a barn full of the most expensive purebreds.

When the Baron was only a couple of feet away, Bob said, more evenly this time, "Why are you here?"

The Baron just smiled, looking down his nose at Bob. He always did that, looked down his nose like that. He was taller than average, and loved making the most of it.

"If you're here to talk to Brian," Bob continued calmly. "If you're thinking of trying to hire him again, he's not here. He won't be back for about a week. You'll have to come back."

"I know he's not here," the Baron said. "And I didn't come to see him. I came to see you, to see how you were faring in this unfortunate marriage."

He turned away to look out into the paddock. With his hands clasped behind his back as he approached, the riding whip he held hadn't been visible. Bob had known it was there, though. Even though the Baron had most certainly come in a carriage, he would still have his riding whip with him. It was as important to his travel gear as his greatcoat or his pocketbook.

The Baron placed a lot of importance on having the right accessories, whether they were things, or horses, or people.

So Bob had known he'd have it, but now Clyde saw it. Bob felt Clyde jerk his head up; he let the lead slip a little through his hand so Clyde wouldn't feel trapped.

"I spoke with your stepfather this morning," the Baron was saying. "He is the one who told me your husband is away. On business, correct?"

Bob returned his smile with a stony look. It didn't bother the Baron in the least.

"Apparently Lord Ellis received papers from your husband's attorney this morning. Ellis seemed to think it might be a prelude to breaking the marriage contract." The Baron moved closer, so that he could ask softly, with feigned concern, "I can't imagine how that would feel, being sent home again. Do you know anything about it?"

When Bob didn't answer he added, "Something about a petition to alter the marriage contract? To make it easier for either of you to declare it null?"

Bob didn't know what was showing on his face, mostly because as that sank in he started to go numb. Whatever the Baron saw made him have to fight back a smile, though.

"So you do know something about that. At any rate, you don't look surprised." He brought a hand up and before Bob could flinch away brushed the backs of his fingers against Bob's neck. "What happened? Couldn't you satisfy him?"

Bob knew exactly where the Baron was touching. It was the bruise on his neck. It had started to go green around the edges, but it was still there. Brian's mouth had made it.

The Baron let his hand settle on Bob's shoulder. He squeezed gently.

"That's all right. That's why I'm here. I wanted to let you know that when he sends you back I'll take you in again." He smiled, and Bob felt his stomach turn. "To be honest, I've missed you."

Something ugly and helpless welled up in Bob's chest. It wrenched out of him in a short, humorless laugh. He could feel Clyde behind him, huge and nervous. When Bob twisted to get out of the Baron's grip and step back, it was as much to get closer to Clyde as it was to get away from the Baron.

The moved surprised the Baron. Bob guessed he'd gotten used to Bob staying put until directed otherwise. The way his mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed, he didn't like the new attitude.

Then he reached for Bob again, and Bob slapped his hand away. Hard.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground with blood in his mouth and clogging his nose. The Baron stood over him, his face hard and cold. Not with anger; Bob had never seen the Baron angry. Rage wasn't necessary, though, not when just incurring his displeasure brought down harsh consequences.

Bob had only seriously displeased the Baron once before. That time, they'd been in the Baron's house, in Bob's room, and the Baron had kicked Bob to his knees and used a belt. This time he didn't need to bother with a belt, since he already had the riding whip in his hand.

Bob flung his arms up and managed to roll over in time to catch the first stroke across his shoulder. The shock of it took his breath away, but he didn't feel it for a second; for a second he felt nothing at all. Then the next lash and the next fell and lit his skin up with fire. It hurt so much he would have cried out if he could have got enough air for it. And then the next strokes hurt a thousand times more.

_Don't beg him to stop_ was all he could think, because he wanted to, he wanted to beg, but _don't. Don't beg. Don't beg for him anymore --_

At first he thought the horrible sound filtering through the haze of pain and desperation was the blood screaming in his ears; then he was seized with fear that it was him doing the screaming. Then the Baron stopped whipping him long enough for Bob's brain to start back up and he realized he was hearing a horse. His horse. Clyde was screaming.

_He's hurting my horse_, but that didn't make sense. The Baron hadn't been doing anything to the horse.

Then Bob realized. The whip. The Baron was using a whip. The way Clyde sounded, the whip was making him crazy with fear.

The Baron shouted, and Bob heard something in his voice he'd never heard before: panic. Bob floundered onto his back in time to see Clyde rear up and lunge horn-first.

The Baron dodged and missed being gored, but lost his footing and crashed to his knees.

Clyde went up on his hind legs again, huge front hooves pawing at the air. The Baron tried to crawl away, but Bob could see that he wasn't going to get far. Clyde's first lunge had brought him too close to attack with his horn again, but he didn't need to use his horn, not with the power he could put behind a kick. The Baron would die. Clyde would kick him, stomp him, and kill him, and then Clyde would have to be put down.

Bob couldn't let that happen. He could have watched anyone else pound the Baron's head in and he wouldn't have lifted a finger to help, but he wasn't going to let the son of a bitch get his horse killed.

Lurching to his feet, Bob dove at the Baron, plowing him out of the way. He saw the flash of Clyde's hooves, and the impact smashed him to the ground. He couldn't breathe. He could see Clyde lunging and stamping away from him, but it felt like Clyde was standing on his chest, like so many tons of weight and the hard edges of hoof and horseshoe pressing against his ribs and lungs.

Somewhere, Clyde stopped screaming and the clattering crash of his hoof beats died away. Silence squeezed every sound away except the blood pounding in Bob's ears. Everything blurred to gray, and then fell into black.

*

The whuffling in his hair and the tickle of short, bristly whiskers on the side of his face woke Bob up. It took him a long time to come out of sleep, but he knew those sensations. When he could finally open his eyes he saw Clyde's enormous feet almost directly in front of him.

Clyde nuzzled his face again, and Bob turned his head and went to lift a hand to push him away. Agony hit him all at once. He couldn't even curl up against it, he could only drop his hand and squeeze his eyes shut and gasp through it.

The pain barely lessened, but he managed to think despite it. He remembered what had happened.

_Oh shit,_ he thought. _What did Clyde do --_

Slowly, working around the crushing pain in his chest, he sat up. He was sweating and he could feel tears running down his face by the time he was mostly upright, but at least he could look around.

He saw no one else, alive or dead. He was alone in the barn with the horses.

For a while he had to close his eyes and focus on breathing as shallowly as possible. His relief was so overwhelming he could feel it at the back of his head and twisting in his stomach, wanting to shake out of him in sobs, but _oh god_ that would hurt. The tremors running through him were bad enough; just making his lungs expand a little hurt like hell.

He couldn't believe he was alive, now that he had a chance to think about it. Clyde must have just clipped him. If the kick had struck home, Bob knew he'd be dead.

Though, as his thoughts jerked and skipped backwards through the last minutes of memory, it occurred to him that maybe being dead would have been okay. He didn't have much to look forward to.

At least he knew now why Brian had left early. He'd had to talk to Greta about changing the marriage contract before leaving on his trip.

_Something to make it easier to nullify the contract,_ the Baron had said.

For the last couple of days Bob had been worrying himself sick trying to figure out what he could do to fix things with Brian. Now it turned out there was nothing to be fixed. It was all over. Brian would send him home. And Ellis would send him back to where he'd started.

Maybe the Baron wouldn't take him back now. Maybe Bob's defiance and nearly getting killed by Bob's horse would cool his interest.

Or maybe the Baron wouldn't refuse, and he'd just come up with some way to punish Bob for it all later.

_No._ Bob gritted his teeth and sucked in a little more breath than he could handle, letting the surge of pain overwhelm his dread. _No. Think about something else._

Maybe there was a third option. Brian had been paying Bob all these months, just like he'd promised. Bob had used some of it to replace worn clothes and boots, but saved the rest in a pouch at the bottom of his trunk. He probably had enough to get him a good distance away from Brian's house now. As long as nobody asked for proof of age and independence, he'd be fine.

He'd have to leave Clyde. And all of the other horses, but Clyde -- Clyde would be the hardest to leave. Clyde was his.

Although, not really. The Baron had kept everything he'd given Bob while they were married; no doubt Brian would want to keep Clyde, too.

_Doesn't matter,_ he told himself. He wouldn't be able to take Clyde to the Baron's house either, so it just didn't matter.

He figured it would be easier to believe that when Clyde wasn't standing beside him shuffling worriedly and puffing in his hair.

He managed to lift one arm enough to grope for Clyde's head. He hooked his fingers in the halter and tugged a little. Clyde dropped his head and held still in Bob's weak grip, and let Bob press their cheeks together.

"Okay," Bob whispered through his teeth. "Okay, big guy. Gotta go now."

He let go of the halter, and put everything out of his mind except getting up.

*

Later, he had no idea how he made it to his room. One second he was struggling to his feet in the barn; the next he was slumped against his wardrobe, shivering and sucking in tiny breaths, and trying not to throw up.

He sat blinking sweat out of his eyes, trying to work up the will to move, to get the money out of his trunk. He didn't know what he'd do once he had it. Initially he'd figured on just walking off the estate, following the road and hopefully hitching a ride with maybe a farmer or a transport wagon. But he could hardly make it from the barn to the bedroom without feeling like he was going to die. He'd have to do something else.

His vision kept blurring, making everything gray and wavery. When the bedroom door started to swing shut, he blinked hard, thinking it was just his eyes. But it swung all the way closed; he heard the click as the latch caught.

His mind wasn't turning over too quickly, so the implications of that didn't strike him until the outline of the door -- hinges, frame, even the door handle -- vanished.

"Hey," he whispered.

His first thought was _I don't have time for a new secret passage_. Then, from somewhere downstairs there was a crash and a shout. More crashing followed -- rhythmic, like someone slamming doors -- that got closer and closer to the room Bob was in.

The shouting got closer too. He heard running; he heard someone yell "_Jesus fucking Christ_" --

The wall where the bedroom door was supposed to be shimmered and Spencer fell into the room.

Flour dusted Spencer's arms, and the purple stains on his apron were mostly likely from the huge basket of blackberries Brendon had brought in from the bramble hedge the day before. He'd clearly been in the middle of baking something when the house had decided to bring him to the bedroom. By the time Spencer floundered to his feet, the shimmer had gone and the wall was just a wall again. Pounding on the wall didn't do him any good; neither did kicking it and demanding to be let out because he had goddamned pies in the oven and they were going to burn if he didn't get back to them right goddamned now.

Finally he turned, looking wildly around the room, probably for another way out. The room was hazy and getting dark so Bob couldn't make out Spencer's expression, but he bet it was pissed off.

Then Spencer stopped moving, the blurry outline of his body going suddenly still.

"Bob," he said. He said it so quietly, and from so far away, that Bob could barely hear him. "What the hell happened?"

Bob was ready with an answer -- 'nothing,' and maybe he'd get lucky and Spencer would believe it and go away -- but blackness opened up and sucked Bob down before he could say it.

*

"Bob, this is dumb," Jon said again. "Just tell us who did it."

His lisp was worse than usual, so even though Bob lay on his side with his face turned away he knew Jon was worried.

"Accident," Bob said against his pillow. "Like I said."

Like he'd said over and over. First to Vicky, who was there when he woke up, doing vicious, agonizing things to the cuts on his back and telling him not to fucking move or his broken ribs would pokes holes in his lungs. Then to Spencer and Ryan and Brendon, who'd come in that order to sit with him and bug the hell out of him trying to find out what had happened.

Now Jon was here, because Spencer had sent a note to Greta telling her to contact Brian and have him come home.

Which was just about the shittiest way to top off Bob's day, as far as he was concerned.

"So Clyde kicked you," Jon said. "Just a little. And on accident. Okay. I believe that. And maybe you did get that shiner and the bloody nose because you hit the ground face first when you fell."

Jon paused -- probably for effect, since he was learning to be a sneaky, manipulative lawyer from Greta -- and then said, "But I'm pretty sure Clyde didn't whip you. And since nobody on Brian's staff would do something like that, it's probable whoever did was in the carriage Brendon saw driving away before Spencer found you."

He paused again, this time waiting. When Bob still didn't say anything, Jon said gently, "Bob, the son of a bitch who did this shouldn't get away with it. Don't let him get away with it. Just give me a name, okay?"

It was tempting, to just tell Jon about the Baron. But there wouldn't be any point to it. Just like last time, it would be Bob's word against the Baron's. Bob would just make more trouble for himself by throwing accusations around.

Taking in a slow breath, as deep as he could before his busted ribs started stabbing him, Bob said, "Fuck off, Walker."

Then he simply refused to speak, and pretended to pass out.

Eventually Jon left. Bob actually didn't notice him go, so he may have really passed out.

Either way, nobody came back for a while. That gave Bob time to get himself mostly upright and sitting on the edge of the bed. Still no one came, which was good because at that point Bob had to stay put for a bit trying not to pass out again.

While he waited for the black spots to stop jumping in front of his eyes and for his head to stop spinning, he worked on what to do next. He clearly wasn't going to be getting anywhere on his own any time soon. Brian's staff wasn't going to help him get out of there, either -- they were all too loyal to Brian, and they wouldn't understand why Bob needed to leave.

But if he could manage to stay on a horse long enough to get to Kingston House, Patrick might help him. Patrick was a good guy, and smart as hell. Bob thought he'd listen, at least, and maybe he'd understand.

Glaring at the wall, Bob said, "You better let me walk out of this goddamned bedroom, dammit."

Silence; the door stayed open. Bob took that as a good sign, braced himself, and pushed up off the bed.

He didn't even feel himself hit the floor.

*

He tried waking up a few more times after that, but something always held him back. He felt too hot to wake up --

he couldn't breathe enough to wake up --

he was too dizzy to wake up --

Something. Always something.

*

When he finally swam up out of the sick blackness, _have to go_ was running circles in his mind. But everything hurt like hell. He had to wait until he was more awake before he tried to actually go.

His ears buzzed and blinking his eyes open only showed him a bright mess at first.

After a few moments, though, his vision cleared up. The bright mess resolved into his room, his wardrobe, sunlight streaming in the window, and Brian's pissed off, worried face.

Then the buzzing sorted out into words.

"-- swear to god, Bob," Brian said. "If you try to get out of that bed one more time I am going to fucking tie you down to it."

Bob peered blearily at him. That struck him as unfair. He only remembered trying to get up the once.

"Go to hell," he said. It came out a raspy, tiny whisper.

Brian broke off mid-rant, staring in shock. "Bob?"

Bob wanted to ask him who the hell else was he talking to a second ago, but he was out of breath. He just shot Brian as dirty a look as he could manage instead.

"Oh god." Brian slid out of his chair to crouch beside the bed. He rested his hands lightly on the edge of the bed, ducking his head to get a better look into Bob's eyes. "I got home yesterday. Half the time you wouldn't wake up, the other half the time you were delirious, and you kept trying to get out of bed -- they said you've been like that for days." He broke off again and shook his head. He had to swallow hard a couple of times before he could say, "Bob, what the hell happened?"

The word Bob was going for once he got enough breath for it was 'nothing,' but what came out was, "You left."

Bob bit his lip, wishing he could kick himself. At least he had sounded mostly angry instead of completely pathetic.

Brian rocked slowly back onto his heels. "I had to go. I had the client..."

He trailed off, but it didn't matter. Bob saw the lie, just as he saw the flicker of regret.

Bob closed his eyes, squeezed them shut. All of the sick feeling, all of the dread, anger and humiliation he'd felt since he woke up alone in the bed that morning a couple days ago rolled over him again. It mixed up with the pain wracking his body, and even though he wanted to tell Brian to fuck off, he heard himself say instead, "What did I do?'

And now he sounded pathetic. So incredibly pathetic. He thought that if the house liked him at all, even a little, it would do him a favor and make the bed swallow him up.

But the house clearly hated him, so that didn't happen.

"No," Brian said. "You didn't. Oh shit."

Bob opened his eyes to see Brian push slowly out of his crouch. He felt behind himself until he found the chair and then sank heavily into it.

"Bob, you didn't do anything." He dropped his face into his hands and wouldn't look at Bob while he spoke. "I was drunk. I was wasted. You were out there in the barn soaking wet, and I wanted you and I couldn't have you, so I got drunk." He shook his head. "Like I've been doing a lot. Because it's just easier. But this time, I got drunk and you were awake when I went to bed, and. You were right there. And."

He stopped and caught his lip between his teeth. Even if Bob had been in any condition to talk, he wouldn't have known what to say. He'd never seen Brian like this. Brian looked haggard and pale, and worn down.

"The thing is," Brian said. "I remember that it was...I mean. It was so good. You're...the way you looked, I can't get that out of my mind. But. Everything else is a little fuzzy." He had to force himself to meet Bob's eyes. "I kind of remember you saying something like. I remember you saying 'no.' But I don't think I stopped. Did I?"

Bob's own head was pretty fuzzy at that moment, so Brian's stumbling ramble didn't make sense at first.

He could tell Brian was waiting for a response to his question, though. Brian _hadn't_ stopped -- of course he hadn't, not entirely, because Bob had kept things going -- so Bob shook his head hesitantly.

What little color was left in Brian's face drained away. He sat back and scrubbed his hand down his face.

"Shit," he whispered. "_Shit_."

The regret Bob had seen moments ago came back, and deepened to self-loathing. Even as angry as Bob was, as afraid as he was about what Brian was going to do with him, it still hurt to see.

Something about that broke through everything clouding up Bob's head, and it struck him all at once: Brian's regret had nothing to do with being disappointed in Bob. It had to do with shame. Being ashamed of _himself_.

Bob had said no, because he hadn't wanted to do what Brian was going for. And Brian had let him redirect what they did.

Apparently the liquor had obscured everything from Brian's memory but the 'no,' though.

"Wait," Bob said. He went to push up onto his elbow without thinking and ended up collapsing back down, feeling like Clyde had kicked him all over again.

Brian lunged out of his chair, landing on his knees by the bed again. He clutched Bob's arm when Bob collapsed, making sure he didn't fall off the bed or onto his shredded back.

"I'm sorry," Brian said. His hand spasmed, tight for just a moment before he made himself let go. "I'm so sorry. You don't have to -- god, I'm so sorry."

Bob shook his head, trying to shut Brian up until he could breathe again. He hated what he heard in Brian's voice; he wanted to stop it. Finally he forced out, "You did what I asked."

At first Brian didn't say anything. He blinked rapidly, confused. "What?"

Gritting his teeth, he gave Brian a look that he hoped got across how very much he didn't want to have to repeat himself.

It didn't work.

"I don't -- Bob, I don't understand."

Closing his eyes in frustration, Bob tried to make his brain work. There was no way he could get the whole damn story out. "Brian," he managed. "Wasn't like you think. Please. Trust me."

When he opened his eyes again, Brian's expression was a mess of emotion. The shame was still there, and confusion, but Bob could also see growing hope. He clearly wanted much more information that what Bob gave him, but all he said was, "Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"

Bob pursed his lips irritably. "I wasn't drunk," he whispered.

"Right." Brian crossed his arms tightly over his chest, smiling weakly. "Right, you were the sober one, weren't you."

The smile faded.

"Shit. Holy shit. I'm sorry. Bob -- I'm so fucking relieved that I didn't --" Brian shook his head and ran his hand over his head. His hair was sticking out in tufts here and there; Bob guessed he'd been running his hands through his hair a lot. "But it still shouldn't have happened like that."

He raised his eyes to meet Bob's. What Bob saw hurt again, but in a different way. This was the ache of wanting something so much that Bob was afraid he'd break apart if it slipped out of his reach.

"You deserved better," Brian said. "I could -- if you maybe gave me another chance, I swear I could do better."

Bob closed his teeth hard over his lip and thought, _shit_, because as if this whole thing wasn't embarrassing enough, he was stupidly close to crying all of a sudden. Even though he heard what Brian was saying, it felt all wrong. He couldn't wrap his head around it, and not just because he was having trouble controlling his breathing and every shuddering gasp felt like knives in his chest, muddling his head up with pain.

Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to get the words out.

"Then. Are you still sending me home?"

Confusion blanked out Brian's expression. "What?"

"The contract." Bob took another small breath. If he kept them small, he got kind of dizzy but it didn't hurt so much. "You changed it?"

"Yes," Brian said slowly. He reached out tentatively, and used his thumb to brush a lock of hair off Bob's forehead and out of his eyes. "I asked Greta to petition for a new clause to be added. I had an expiration date put on the contract, for your twenty-fifth birthday. It says that on that date both parties have to agree to a continuation of the contract, or else it's void."

That was not even close to what Bob had been expecting. On his twenty-fifth birthday -- Bob would be a legal independent on that day. His autonomy would only go so far if he was bound by a marriage contract, but Brian had taken care of that.

He'd made it so that Bob could, if he chose it, be completely his own person.

"I was afraid you'd feel stuck with me," Brian said. "Maybe you'd decide to stay with me no matter what I'd done, just to avoid having to go home. I wanted you to at least know there could be an end to it. But."

His brow creased with confusion, and a little irritation. He continued stroking Bob's hair without seeming to even realize he was doing it; it was like a compulsion to touch, and Bob was glad for it. It made him think the irritation probably wasn't directed at him.

"Who told you that?" Brian asked. "Did Jon? He was supposed to wait."

Bob didn't want to shake his head, in case it made Brian pull his hand back. Instead, he said without thinking, "No, the Baron. Ellis told him."

Brian's hand stopped.

"The -" Brian's expression hardened. "The Baron. The Baron was here?"

Bob didn't answer. Anger suffused Brian's expression, and Bob didn't know why, or if anything he might say would make it worse.

When Bob didn't answer, though, Brian seemed to get angrier. He pulled his hand back and stood. "That's who Brendon saw leaving in the carriage, wasn't it. Did he do this to you?"

All of the regret, worry and confusion washed from Brian's face, overtaken by fury. It took Bob a few disconcerted moments to put things together, but then it struck him -- that rage was for him. Brian looked like he was ready to ride across the county and tear the Baron's head off for _Bob_.

Then Brian was striding toward the door and Bob realized Brian possibly _was_ about to get on a horse and go try to beat the shit out of the Baron. If he managed to do it, it would be incredibly satisfying, right up until Brian was arrested and jailed for the rest of his life for attempting to kill a High Lord.

Bob pushed himself up, meaning to call out to stop him. He remembered too late why he shouldn't make any sudden movements.

Pain, a lot of pain, so much pain; his arm collapsed under him and he felt himself falling forward, toward the edge of the bed. He heard Brian shout, and then everything went black.

*****

Brian opened the door to his bedroom and found himself in the indoor patio again.

Sighing, he closed the door and back-tracked, heading to the south wing of the house. Retraining himself to take a new path to the bedroom was going slowly. He went the wrong way several times a day at least.

Not that he would complain about it. He could put up with the inconvenience if it meant he wouldn't have to worry about Bob trying to drag his idiot self outside whenever he was left alone for five minutes.

The last time Bob did that was a few days before. Bob had tried to get up and walk to the stables -- not to work, he swore; just to see the horses. He'd made it as far as the bedroom door before collapsing and slumping against the wall until someone came to check on him and helped him back to bed.

Vicky had yelled at him for a good quarter hour. Bob's ribs weren't healed yet, and he was still incredibly weak from the blood fever that had set in early on, after the wounds on his back took an infection; he could either stay in bed for as long as it took to get him well, she said, or he could fall down the stairs or catch fever again and kill himself. Only she said it with a lot of swearing and graphic descriptions of things like punctured lungs and what it would be like to vomit to death.

Bob had glared a lot, but he'd agreed to stay put. No one entirely believed him. Brian had started drawing up a schedule for rotating his staff (plus Jon and Z, who appeared to have actually moved in sometime during the last several weeks when Brian wasn't paying attention) on guard duty outside the bedroom door.

Guards turned out to be unnecessary, though. The morning after Bob's escape attempt, Brian woke up in the cot he slept on while Bob healed to find the layout of the room reversed. It was a mirror image of itself, with everything that had been on the north wall now on the south -- including the windows.

In fact, the entire second floor of the house had been rearranged, putting all the occupied bedrooms in the south wing. Nobody had noticed it happen; the house had done it somehow while they all slept. The only person not surprised about it was, of course, Ryan.

Brian had stood in the hallway yelling at the house to please not confuse the hell out of him like that before coffee, until Ryan abruptly pushed past him into the room. He'd grinned at Bob, blinking sleepily at him from the sick bed, and said, "I had an awesome dream last night."

What that meant, Brian had no clue, but then Ryan shoved the curtains open on Brian and Bob's new south-facing windows.

"Have a look," Ryan said.

When the bedrooms were in the north wing, the northerly windows looked out over a long, rolling swath of gardens and lawn that faded at the ivy-covered wall into the tree line.

Now the bedrooms, at least the ones on Brian and Bob's end of the wing, looked out over the stables.

Brian strongly suspected the house had a soft spot for Bob.

Brian empathized.

That morning Bob was sitting in his new usual place when Brian got to the bedroom, in the wingback chair by the window. A cool autumn breeze drifted in, carrying Shane's voice and the scuffling thuds of Clyde's hooves on the gravel.

"Hey," Brian said quietly. "Are you awake?"

Bob tilted his head to look up as Brian came around the chair. He made a soft, rough sound, a tired affirmative. He put plenty of grumpiness into his expression, too.

"Right, when do you sleep lately," Brian said. He pulled another chair close to Bob's and sat, and held out the big mug he'd brought. "I have soup. You hungry?"

Bob grimaced. "Please tell me it's not just broth."

"It's your lucky day. This is Spencer's beef vegetable soup. He cut everything up really small, so you won't have to mess with a spoon."

That perked Bob up a bit. He was a big fan of Spencer's beef vegetable soup. He shifted around a little to get an arm out of the blanket he was cocooned in. He kept to small, awkward movements, but his face took on a hard set against the aches that flared up.

While he had the fever, he'd slept a lot, but it had been a delirious, sick unconsciousness rather than good, healthy sleep. Once the fever passed, he had to deal with the fact that between his broken ribs and the wounds on his back, getting comfortable was nearly impossible. Occasionally he could be talked into taking some of Vicky's sleeping tea, but more often than not he slept only when tiredness overwhelmed discomfort.

It frustrated the hell out of Brian, to have to lie on his cot and listen to Bob shift around and hold back little pained noises, and not be able to do anything about it. He wasn't getting much sleep either because of it.

He put the mug in Bob's hand, holding it there until he was sure Bob had it, and then leaned forward to prop his elbows on the windowsill. Shane had Clyde and Goose out in front of the barn for baths. The farrier was coming later in the afternoon for the regular re-shoeing, so there would be a parade of horses out there all day.

Clyde wasn't in the mood for a bath, though, and wouldn't stand still for Shane. That was typical for Clyde at the moment; he'd been unruly ever since the Baron's visit. Shane was patient, and smart enough to know that mistreating any of the horses in the least would bring down the Wrath of Bob, if Brian didn't get to him first, so he dealt with it well enough. And it wasn't just Shane Clyde treated that way. Brian liked Shane, and knew Bob thought he had the makings of an excellent horse master, but Shane had only been coming around for a couple of months. Brian couldn't leave him in charge of the horses. When Brian was home, he took the bulk of the work; when he wasn't, Patrick came to stay, or Jepha stopped by. Clyde was a jerk to all of them.

Bob made an irritated noise; Brian sat back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at him questioningly.

"Clyde's being a contrary bastard," Bob said. "Again. I thought he was getting better about that."

"He misses you," Brian said.

Bob shot him a doubtful look. "We only had him for a couple of months before --" He made an abbreviated gesture at himself with his soup mug. "Before this happened. I doubt he got attached that fast."

"You think?" Brian said. Before Bob could answer Brian stood and leaned a little out the window. He shouted until Shane looked up, and then waved them over.

"Bring him over here," he called.

Tugging Clyde's halter free, Shane hoisted the bucket and led Clyde to the edge of the lawn.

"You can come on the grass," Brian said. "Bring him under the window."

Shane brought Clyde just close enough that Brian and Bob could see him from where they sat, and set down the bucket. Being tied at the barn had meant Clyde could only shift sideways back and forth in a half-circle, either moving away from Shane, or crowding into him. But on the lawn, with nothing to fix his lead to and with all kinds of tasty grass around him, Clyde just wandered off, nibbling turf as he went. Shane grabbed his halter, but instead of stopping Clyde walked him around in a circle.

Brian made himself not laugh. He could hear Shane muttering at Clyde under his breath about how Clyde was making him look bad in front of his bosses.

With his chair set at an angle to the window, Bob only had to lean sideways a little to get close enough to the window to make himself heard.

"Clyde," he said. He couldn't quite yell and he sounded a little breathless, but he got the right amount of gruff firmness into his tone. "Stop being such a jerk."

Clyde paused, raising his head and pricking his ears in Bob's direction. When Bob called, "Be nice, you big blockhead," Clyde whinnied and shook his head, unimpressed and not about to let anybody tell him what to do, not even Bob. But when he dropped his head to nibble on the grass again, he stood still for Shane and let himself be bathed.

Bob tried not to smile at Clyde's reaction, but he wasn't as good at hiding that sort of thing when he was sick.

"I told you. All of the horses are being brats, actually. They want you back." Brian put on a scowl. "You turned my horses against me, Bryar."

Bob twitched a shoulder in a tiny, dismissive shrug and tried not to look pleased, but failed at that too. The pleasure did wonders for him. He settled back gingerly in the chair, but despite his obvious discomfort much of the tightness smoothed from his expression. He looked almost at ease for the first time since before Brian had left for the continent weeks ago.

Brian turned away, looking out at Clyde and Shane instead of at Bob. Brian wished he could blame all of Bob's unhappiness, the way he'd drawn back into himself, entirely on the Baron. But even as the bruises on Bob's face faded and his body healed, he remained subdued. The perpetual dark circles under his eyes may have been from lack of sleep, but the reserve that dulled their brilliant blue had another origin. He was back to insisting he was fine when he wasn't, too, back to holding back questions, back to talking to Brian's staff but not to Brian.

Back to treating Brian like his keeper rather than his friend.

Brian cleared his throat and sat back again. He realized he'd clutched his hands in his lap and was a split second away from wringing them nervously; he pulled them apart and flattened them on his knees to give them something to do.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked Bob. "Are you thirsty? I could get you water. Or coffee."

Bob shook his head minutely. "No, I'm fine."

_Of course you are_. Brian refrained from saying it out loud, but the words stuck sourly in his throat. It didn't make him mad, like it had when Bob had first moved in and Brian had thought Bob was just being a standoffish ass. Now it made him...he didn't know. He couldn't put words to it. Whatever the feeling was, it brought along with it a desperate need for a stiff drink.

It wasn't an urge he could feed. One of the things Brian had done to occupy him while Bob huddled in bed burning with fever was recruit everybody on staff to scour the house for liquor and get rid of every last drop of it. Nobody was thrilled with Brian banning alcohol from the grounds, but nobody said a word about it, either. He didn't know if they were aware of what he'd done, or almost done, but he tried not to care. He had decided he could drink himself into oblivion if Bob died of the fever, but so long as Bob lived, and lived in that house, Brian wasn't touching a goddamned drop.

It was a hell of a lot harder to do than he'd ever have imagined. It felt like every other hour he would be hit with the need to get himself to the nearest pub or else he'd come out of his skin.

Luckily -- or unluckily, depending on Brian's mood -- the house pitched in to help him out. He'd found himself trapped in doorless rooms and sent wandering a labyrinth of hallways, staircases and secret passages that went everywhere other than where they were supposed to go -- to an exit out of the house, specifically -- more times than he'd bothered to count in the last several weeks.

As the silence drew out again, Brian cast around for something to say. "Spencer's whipping up a chocolate cream pie," he said finally. "And I think maybe a raspberry meringue. If the humidity is right today. Did he say humidity? Something like that."

Bob said, "Oh," politely.

Then more silence.

"So, Vicky came by earlier, right?" Brian said. "Did she tell you about the hobs?"

"No." Bob paused, tapped a finger against his mug. "She said I should ask you about them, though."

"She did?" Brian had figured that topic of conversation would have been covered already, since the hobs were Vicky and Gabe's scheme.

Bob nodded. He shifted his gaze briefly to Brian, then back to Clyde out the window, and said, "And, you know Patrick was here yesterday? He said to ask you something too. About black market horses?"

Brian blinked in surprise.

"Okay," he said slowly.

He'd been only peripherally involved in both activities; he'd assumed the guilty parties would have wanted to fill Bob in.

He opened his mouth to say as much, but Bob's expression -- mildly embarrassed in a way that suggested he'd be fidgeting if it wouldn't hurt to do so -- pricked Brian's curiosity.

"So," Brian said. "Is there anything else anyone has told you to ask me?"

The noncommittal hum Bob responded with was not very convincing, mostly because the way his cheeks started turning a little pink stood out pretty obviously against his sickly pallor. Brian raised his eyebrows and waited.

"Well," Bob said. "Sort of. I guess. Everything."

Brian stared at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

Bob huffed a small, irritated sigh. "I mean everything. Nobody will tell me anything. They start talking about things and then stop and say 'you should ask Brian to tell you more about it.' I ask them about things they're doing -- like, what's Brendon doing in the gardens this week, what's going on with the horses -- and they tell me to ask you." He shot Brian a sideways look, a little uncertain, and a little suspicious. "This morning Ryan came in to get laundry and I asked him what time it was. He told me to ask you and then left."

After a somewhat blank pause, Brian pulled out his pocket watch.

"Half past one," he said.

Bob blinked at him, and then snorted. "Great, thanks. That really helps me out. Six hours later."

Bob's bemused tone left Brian momentarily speechless. After weeks of Bob being reserved and cautious again, his unspoken "you enormous dork" made Brian's heart do something involving skipped beats and flip-flops in his chest.

He didn't realize he was sitting there smiling at Bob like an idiot until Bob got the fidgety look on his face again and said, "So. Are you going to tell me about the hobs? And the other stuff?"

"Oh," Brian said. "Right. Yes. So, the hobs. The thing about the hobs -- several of our hob colonies appear to have migrated."

Bob frowned. "Migrated? I thought hob were territorial. They don't leave a place unless they're forced."

"Well." Brian sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. "I think these may have migrated in boxes. Possibly a wagon full of apples was used as a bribe." Before Bob could respond to that Brian said, "The funny thing is -- the ironic thing, I guess you could say, is that Vicky and Gabe were passing through the eastern valley on their way to..."

Brian hesitated, then decided he didn't really need to embellish quite that much and waved the detail off.

"They were passing through the eastern valley, and they heard that one of the estates in that area was experiencing a strange and sudden hob infestation."

"An estate in the eastern valley," Bob said slowly. "Really."

"Mm," Brian said agreeably. "The Baron who owns the estate seems to be having a run of bad luck, actually. I heard from Pete that some breeders overseas have come forward and claimed that the Baron purchased quite a few of his horses off the black market. They've identified the horses as their own stock, that were apparently stolen and smuggled into the country over the years."

Bob blinked at him. "Stolen. Stolen?"

Brian nodded. "Sounds like he's going to lose more than half his stock. I guess he claims he didn't know the horses were stolen, but he's still out the money as well as the animals."

Bob opened his mouth. Then closed it. Brian noticed that he was clutching the nearly empty soup mug so tightly his fingertips were turning white.

"_Really_ stolen?" Bob said. "Are you sure?"

"That's what Pete's friends say." Brian met Bob's disbelieving gaze steadily. "They're very wealthy and influential men and women. Not unlike the Baron. Only there are half a dozen of them and only one of him. So I'd say he's in some trouble."

A _thunk_ and an annoyed shout drew their attention back to the yard outside, where Clyde had kicked over Shane's bucket. Bob had his eyes on the pair, watching Shane dive for the bucket and right it, trying to save some of the water. There was a distance in his eyes that made Brian think that for once Bob wasn't seeing his horse, though.

When Bob's glance slid to Brian, and then quickly away again, the mess of emotion in his eyes made Brian's chest tighten.

"I didn't have anything to do with it," Brian said quietly. "I wish I had. But."

He'd wanted to do something. He'd been ready to ride out to the son of a bitch's estate and call him out as soon as he'd found out who was to blame. It took Jon pointing out that if Brian got himself thrown in jail for assault, he could lose the house and his horses, and Bob would end up either homeless or back with his stepfather.

Brian had then talked to Greta about contacting the authorities, or even just suing the Baron for damage to property. Technically Bob was Brian's property; it should have been within his rights to demand some kind of financial restitution for what the Baron had done.

Greta had been willing to go either way, but she had pointed out that the Baron was not only wealthy enough to buy the best lawyers in the country, he was also influential enough just due to his title that no judge would give the case more than a passing glance before dismissing it.

And then he could turn around and counter-sue, and call in some favors, and put Brian and Bob out of business entirely, possibly out of their house and onto the streets.

The truth of it had eaten Brian up inside. He hated being helpless. He wanted to hurt the son of a bitch, make him bleed somehow, for what he'd done to Bob. But in the end he couldn't do a damned thing to him at all. And he had approved of Vicky's and Pete's schemes, obviously, but they hadn't made him feel much better.

Until now.

Bob sat very still, eyes fixed on Clyde in the yard, but the soup left in the mug sloshed as his hand shook, and his mouth was pressed in a tight line. His eyes were shining; if Bob had been anyone else Brian might have thought he was near tears.

Squeezing his eyes briefly shut, Bob managed an abbreviated laugh. He ducked his head and pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment. Then he looked up, clearing his throat a couple of times before shaking his head and saying, "Shit. That's. Holy shit, Brian."

When he looked at Brian then his eyes were red and a little damp, but he sounded deeply satisfied. Possibly a bit vindictive.

Brian absolutely empathized.

"I wish I could have seen his face," Bob said. "He must be out of his mind. He must be furious."

Bob's hand was still shaking, so Brian leaned over and took hold of the mug. When Bob glanced down at the mug, and their hands lightly touching, Brian said, "You want me to take that for you?"

"Oh," Bob said. "Yes. Thanks."

He let Brian take it, watching it as Brian clasped it in both hands in his lap.

"Did you want more?" Brian asked. "I could get you more. Or, something else. Something to drink? Spencer made some sweet bread this morning, I could get you some of that."

Then he had to bite his tongue to stop from babbling. There was still so much emotion playing over Bob's face that Brian felt like he needed to either get the hell out of that room or else do something really dumb, like give Bob a hug. Or maybe kiss him.

"Oh," Bob said again. He dragged his gaze from the mug and Brian's hands, and seemed to pull himself together a little. "Sure. Something to drink, maybe?"

Brian stood quickly. "Okay, good. I'll go -- I'll go."

He'd barely turned away when Bob said his name. Brian glanced down at him.

"Thanks. For the news," Bob said. "Well, and the soup. And." He hesitated. "And. Just, thanks."

"Sure. Of course."

He made to move away again, but Bob shifted, almost as if he meant to reach out.

"Wait," he said. "Brian, wait."

Leaning his elbow on the arm of the chair, Bob sagged and rubbed his forehead wearily. The blanket fell from around his shoulders; beneath it he had on a loose nightshirt, unlaced at the top and slipping sideways. Brian caught a glimpse of the bandages around his chest and over his shoulder.

Not bending down and tugging up Bob's shirt, and tucking the blanket back around him, was at that moment nearly as difficult as not trying to sneak out to the nearest pub for a drink.

"Can I ask you something?" Bob said, sounding tentative.

"Of course," Brian said. "Always. You can always ask me whatever you need to."

Bob nodded, still not looking at him. "Okay. Then. I wanted to ask about what happened. The night -- the night before you left. When we."

He broke off and lifted his head so he could make a small, twitchy motion with his hand.

"When we," Brian repeated. He worked to keep his mind blank, not wanting to go back to the shame he still felt, and knowing he shouldn't remember the way Bob had looked, the way he had wanted Bob so badly. "Yeah."

Nodding again, Bob fumbled for the blanket, tugging it awkwardly back around him. "Is that going to happen again?" he said.

It was like a door opening, and everything about that night rushed in regardless of how Brian tried to hold it off. So much had gone wrong, but so much had felt so incredibly right. Brian desperately wanted it to happen again, even though he knew he shouldn't.

He sank back down to his chair, perching just on the edge of it.

"Not if you don't want it to," he said.

He bit his lip and wished he could take the words back. He shouldn't have said it that way. He should have said, _no, of course not, you don't have to worry about that, I swear._ He should have begged Bob to trust him not to make that mistake again. In the silence, he stared at the mug in his hands, and at the floor just past it.

"If I didn't," Bob said finally. "We would. What, we would be like we were before?"

Brian nodded. He still couldn't bring himself to meet Bob's eyes; he was afraid of what Bob would see. "Absolutely. If that's what you want." _Please don't want that,_ he didn't say.

"Oh," Bob said. Then he said, more quietly, "And if I wanted it to happen again?"

Brian looked up then; he couldn't help himself. Bob was looking at him, a little sideways, but so intently. There was something in his gaze that Brian recognized, because it was the same thing he was feeling. It was -- or at least he thought maybe it was -- something a little hopeful.

"Then it would," Brian said. His voice shook a little, but he didn't stop to make it steady. "If that's what you wanted. However you wanted it to happen, it would. Because I. Because."

He wanted to say _because I'm in love with you,_ and _because I want to give you anything you want,_ and _all you have to do is ask._

"Anything you want," was all he could manage.

It seemed to be enough, though. Bob looked away quickly, but not before Brian saw a flash of relief.

"Bob," Brian said.

He set the mug on the windowsill and before he knew what he was doing he was up with his hands braced on the arms of Bob's chair, leaning in. Bob turned toward him just in time for their mouths to brush together.

Brian brought a hand up, resting his fingertips lightly on Bob's cheek -- just enough to steady them, not enough that Bob couldn't turn away. But Bob didn't turn away. He didn't even flinch. He tilted his face up and met the kiss, warm and soft, tentative but just as needy as Brian felt.

They didn't linger; Brian drew back and Bob let him. Bob's tongue flicked out across his bottom lip, and a flush warmed his cheeks. Brian stroked the backs of his fingers down Bob's cheek. It felt like a very self-indulgent thing to do, but he couldn't help it. He'd been craving that -- being able to touch Bob like that, feeling Bob lean ever so slightly into it.

"Okay?" Brian whispered.

Bob caught his lip between his teeth, worrying at it the way he did when he was trying not to smile.

Brian smiled back. "Okay."

Reluctantly, he stood again. He had to scrub a hand over his face and take a deep breath before he could speak normally.

"Okay. So." He dropped his hand and made the mistake of looking at Bob. Bob's expression had lost the heaviness that had dulled his eyes over the last weeks. Beneath his natural reserve, Bob looked almost happy.

Brian felt spun. It took him a moment to remember what he was doing, why he was standing there instead of pulling Bob up and kissing him all the way to the bed.

"Oh, right," he said suddenly. "You are not well yet. And I was getting you something to drink, wasn't I."

That actually got him a smile, even though it was quickly hidden.

"Yes, you were," Bob said. "Or, you don't have to. You could stay here. Talk to me." He glanced outside to where Clyde was dragging Shane around the lawn by the lead again. "Watch my horse get on Shane's last nerve."

Brian laughed, stifling it just before it got too embarrassingly giddy.

"I could do that," he said.

Bob didn't say anything when Brian pulled his chair a couple inches closer before sitting down. But when Brian stretched his legs out, Bob slid a foot forward until it bumped Brian's.

Just a small touch, but Brian drank it up.

*

End

*

**Author's Note:**

> Hopeful Farm and Henry Dailey come from Walter Farley's _Black Stallion_ novels, thought I dropped them into the pseudo-Regency era of Bob and Brian's story.


End file.
